


Follow Me Down

by 221BeStillMyHeart (HighTimesWithHiddles)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, And John loves it, BAMF John, BAMF John Watson, Big Brother Mycroft, Caring John, Case Fic, Daddy Kink, Domestic Abuse (mention), First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff, Gentle John, Insecure Sherlock, Jealous John, Jealous Sherlock, John is a suave mofo, M/M, Masturbation, Military Kink, Molly Hooper is not a wilting wallflower, Mycroft is a good big brother, Pining, Poor baby just can't help it, Protective John, Protective Lestrade, Rubick's cube sex, Sherlock Flirts, Sherlock Is An Adorable Gay Baby Giraffe, Sherlock and Mycroft do not hate each other, Sherlock is a blushing baby, Sherlock is brilliant, Sherlock is so obvious, Sherlock likes compliments, Slow Burn, This barista is an jerk, Well - Freeform, eventually, just a little bit tho, kinda slow, tags will update as the fic updates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-07-14 03:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7152227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighTimesWithHiddles/pseuds/221BeStillMyHeart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a 23 year old genius working as a forensic analyst at Bart's hospital. John Watson is a 38 year old army captain just back from war, working as the lead surgeon in the trauma ward. A chance meeting brings them together, and no one is ever the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nice Meeting You

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so for the most part all you need to know is that John has been shot, but he doesn't have the tremor, so he's still a surgeon. Also, I know little to nothing about working in a hospital so yeah, beware of inaccuracies. Biggest one is that NO ONE here is underage. Everyone is a fully consenting adult. 
> 
> I'm 4 chapters ahead and I'll be updating every other Wednesday until it's complete! 
> 
> Also, no beta so if you see any glaring mistakes please feel free to point them out, and a I'm always up for some constructive criticism although I do ask that you be kind because I'm still kinda new to this and my nerves are all over the place with it. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Sherlock is sitting in the back corner of the lab, peering down into the ocular lens of his favorite microscope, well, his favorite _work_ microscope, when he hears the door open and shut with a quiet snick.

He doesn't look up. It's highly unlikely that whoever just arrived is here for him. Alternatively, it's very _highly_ likely that whoever just stepped inside is a bumbling idiot, something Sherlock has little to no tolerance for. So he continues his work, scribbles notes, and tunes out the quiet conversation while the mass spectrometer whirs softly in the background until the words 'completely incompetent' break through his concentration.

He still doesn't look up, but he does listen more intently and is far from disappointed at what he hears.

"Your idiocy almost left a woman without a husband, and two children without a father. There is absolutely no margin for error when there are lives at stake. You do your job, and you do it right the first time. Every time."

Sherlock's curiosity gets the better of him and he looks up, and then he freezes. There, across the room, standing tall, with his wide shoulders drawn back and his head held high, glaring up at the terrified expression of his lab acquaintance (Sherlock refuses to address him as his partner because 'completely incompetent' doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of his stupidity) is a small blond man speaking in a low commanding voice.

It isn't the blazing anger rolling off the man in thick waves that brings Sherlock's mind to a stuttering halt. It isn't the clear compassion for the almost lost patient and his family that accounts for how hard his heart is suddenly pounding in his chest. It's not even the fact that someone other than himself has finally called his lab acquaintance out on his vast levels of ignorance that has Sherlock completely unable to rip his gaze away. 

The man is bloody _gorgeous_.

Sherlock sucks in a quick, harsh breath and drags his eyes over the powerful and compact form of this beautiful man with his golden skin, sun burnished hair, and dark well trimmed beard. He bites at his lower lip as his mind comes to quick conclusions based on the wealth of information he gleans from the man's appearance.

He looks back up, and almost falls over to find midnight blue eyes trained on his, and one eyebrow quirked in an almost smug reaction to Sherlock's slow perusal of his body. 

The man, evidently finished berating his lab acquaintance strides confidently over to Sherlock and holds out his hand.

"Hello." He says with a warm smile as Sherlock shakes his hand.

"I'm terribly sorry to disturb your work this way, but these things must be addressed." 

Sherlock shakes his head furiously.

"No!" He nearly shouts, then drops his gaze as he feels a flush steal up the back of his neck and stain the tops of his ears red.

"I mean, yes. I agree. That's not a mistake that can be taken lightly Dr..." He trails off, realizing he doesn't know this man's name.

"Watson. John Watson." The man offers and when Sherlock looks back up into the deepest blue eyes he's ever seen there's a knowing gleam twinkling back at him.

"And you are?" The man asks softly.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes." 

"Well, Sherlock Holmes. What is someone as young as you doing in a forensics lab at Bart's?" He asks.

"I _am_ only 23, but I have an incalculable I.Q. and a very meddlesome, but also extremely powerful brother. I was brought on about six months ago at his request. He seems to believe that being 'gainfully employed' will help keep me out of trouble." Sherlock says wth a roll of his eyes.

"Oh, I can guess that you're all kinds of trouble aren't you?" John asks, and smirks when Sherlock cheeks flame red.

"This pollen experiment," John says, gesturing towards the notes beneath Sherlock's hand. "Is it yours, or is it for a patient?" John asks.

Sherlock beams at him.

"Yes sir, it's mine." 

Behind John Sherlock sees his lab acquaintance mouth the word 'sir' with a look of astonished confusion, and for once, Sherlock can't blame him. Even he's wondering how the hell he managed to let that one slip out. Dr. John Watson however, takes it in his stride as Sherlock pushes on with his explanation. "In my free time I help solves crimes for the Met. Whenever I have to appropriate hospital resources to help solve a crime, the hospital gets paid. As you might imagine, the hospital board has been all too happy to help facilitate this new working relationship." Sherlock says, and yes. Maybe he is a bit smug about how well this has all been working out for him.

"You're very clever, Sherlock Holmes." John says with a smile.

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock says with a light flush and a slight inclination of his head. "Captain or Major?" He asks quietly, and a small smile tugs at the corner of John's lips.

"Captain." John answers. "How did you know?" He asks 

"Well, your haircut and the way you hold yourself says military. You work here, so obviously you're an army Doctor. You have a suntan on your face and hands but not above the wrists, so not recreational then. Clearly just back home from either Afghanistan or Iraq. You're rather forceful when you feel someone isn't working up to the standards you set and you're all too comfortable being called 'sir'. It wasn't a very difficult leap." 

"Afghanistan." John says with a nod. "Wow, that was brilliant." he continues in an awestruck voice. Sherlock feels his cheeks go red _again_ , and curses his fair complexion.

"Although there are other reasons a man might be used to being called 'sir'." John says, quirking that damned eyebrow again and smiling rakishly up at Sherlock.

Sherlock draws his lower lip into his mouth and nibbles at it lightly, unable to break the eye contact.

John's phone chimes and the spell is broken when he tears his gaze away from Sherlock's to look down at the display.

"Well, I have to be off. Duty calls." He says with a slight shake of his phone.

"I hope to see you again very soon." He adds.

Sherlock nods, unable to find his voice, and John smirks back at him.

"It was very nice to meet you Sherlock." He finishes as Sherlock walks him to the door, and with a quick wink and a small press of his hand to Sherlock's forearm, he's gone.

Mindful of the shocked eyes of his lab acquaintance Sherlock strides calmly back to his seat and goes back to peering into his microscope, but he isn't paying attention.

He's too busy still feeling the warmth of John's hand on his arm, as if there hadn't been two layers of fabric between them. 

He sighs, stands, and leaves the lab. There's no point in staying, he already knows he's going to be useless for the rest of the day.

He makes his way to a staff loo and locks the door, then leans over one of the sinks and stares at his reflection in the mirror before him, trying to corral his racing thoughts.

"What the hell was that?" He asks himself out loud, and is completely unsurprised when no answer is forthcoming.

Sherlock has no clue _what_ just happened, but what he does know is that against all the odds, he has to have John Watson.


	2. Just My Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock just wants to _see_ him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Yes I know I'm a whole week early but you guys, WOW! I'm so amazed and insanely flattered by the response to chapter one, and I _finally_ finished a chapter that had been driving me right up the bloody wall. So in both thanks and celebration, a new chapter! 
> 
> Also, I forgot to tell you that I completely and unabashedly abuse italics, just so's you know.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

If anyone were to ever ask, Sherlock Holmes would deny to the death that he has spent the last four days trying to casually run into John Watson. Well, as casual as anyone can be while traipsing through a trauma ward they have no business being in. 

Luckily most people at Bart's already know him, almost everyone knows _of_ him, and seeing as none of his coworkers are eager to have the most sordid details of their lives laid out before them and all their colleagues, people tend to leave him alone. This works well for Sherlock. He likes being left alone.

Or at least he thought he did, but that's doing nothing to explain the small pout on his lips as he steps onto the elevator back to the lab after he fails to find Dr. Watson. _Again_.

Sherlock strides into the lab and breathes a small sigh of relief to find it empty. He washes his hands, shrugs into his lab coat, and pulls on goggles and gloves. He has a job to do, and experiments to conduct. He can't spend _every_ waking moment thinking about John Watson, and he will _not_ moon about like some lovesick child.

He begins mixing his chemicals, frazzled and mildly annoyed, but soon his movements begin to flow and his brain quiets down to nothing but numbers and formulae. 

Just as he hits his stride the mix of compounds in his test tube turns a deep red and shoots out of the tube, leaving him and most everything in his vicinity, covered in thick maroon slime. 

Sherlock is still standing with his mouth hanging open in shock, when the door to the lab opens.

Of course. Of bloody _course_ , because the universe hates him, _now_ is exactly the moment of _all_ the possible moments in the last _four days_ that John Watson would choose to seek him out.

Of course it is.

Sherlock pushes his goggles up and off of his eyes and looks over at John, waiting for the humiliating laughter to begin.

But that's not what he gets. John rushes into the room and quickly pulls on a pair of gloves.

"Is this stuff noxious or toxic in any way at all?" He asks, helping Sherlock out of his completely covered lab coat.

"No. Just," Sherlock takes a moment to swipe some of the goop from his face and it slaps the black counter with a horrifying splat. "sticky." He finishes with a put upon sigh and John smiles. He takes Sherlock's wrist gently and leads him to the sink, where he slides a stool before him and gestures for Sherlock to sit.

Sherlock does so, clamping his jaws shut in an attempt to fight off the blush he can feel creeping up his throat. 

John turns on the tap, lets the water run for a moment then checks the temperature with his fingertips. He adjusts it slightly then reaches over and grabs a large handful of paper towels.

"Can it get wet safely?" He asks, and Sherlock, impressed with John's forethought to ask such a question, makes the mistake of nodding his head which shakes a few bits of the dark red mess from his hair onto John's shirt.

"I apologize." He says immediately. "I'm happy to cover your dry cleaning bill." But John just chuckles lightly and wets a few of the paper towels.

"It's not a big deal, I'm more worried about getting this stuff off your face before it stains your skin and you're walking around with red splotches for the next few days." He responds, and then begins to dab gently at the bits of goop that have dripped down around Sherlock's eyes. John takes Sherlock's chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting his face up to the light, and tilting it this way and that, as he gently cleans the mess from his face. 

Sherlock isn't breathing. He is frozen in his chair and clinging to the seat of his stool with a white knuckled grip. Just as he feels his chest tighten from lack of oxygen John releases his chin to softly brush his curls back from his face and dab gently at his hairline. The gentle gesture makes him breathe out slowly, and relax into the tender touch. 

No one has ever done something so simple and so very _intimate_ for him. 

Most people he knows would love nothing more than this chance to laugh him out of the room, preferably after taking a picture or two. Yet here is John Watson, having almost no knowledge of him at all, with a small smile on his lips and a steadily growing pile of dirty paper towels near his elbow as he wipes sludge from Sherlock's face because his first instinct is to _care_ for him.

Sherlock is doomed. 

It's almost poetic. Sherlock Holmes, who never gives half a whit about what anyone thinks of him, is dying to have this _one_ man like him and has already managed to humiliate himself to the point of no return. This moment will likely be the last he sees of John Watson and the thought makes Sherlock want to curl into a ball and wallow in his bitter sorrow.

Just as he's preparing himself to shake John's hand and go make use of the employee shower, John steps back, tosses the dirty napkins and his gloves into the bin, and smiles. Big and bright and beaming, at _Sherlock_.

"There you are, pretty as a picture. I couldn't do much for your hair, but at least your coat took the brunt of it. Take a shower and you'll be right as rain." He says happily.

Sherlock however, is still stuck on the fact that John has just called him _pretty_. He's never been called pretty before in his _life_.

"-ee?" Sherlock hears John finish what was obviously a question.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asks, with a shake of his head to clear his mind.

"I asked, if you'd like to have coffee after your shower." He says with a light chuckle, ocean blue eyes gleaming. 

Dangerous this man is, and too gorgeous by half.

"Black, two sugars." Sherlock tosses as he finally rids himself of his gloves. 

John throws back his head and laughs.

"I'm not going to bring it _to you_ you berk. I was asking if you'd like to go and get coffee, _with_ me." John explains and Sherlock's breath catches in his throat.

"You mean, like a date?" He asks, mildly confused because no one _dates_ Sherlock. That's just not how things go. Apparently this small man with the beaming smile and the endless blue eyes has yet to learn the rule.

"Yes, exactly that." John says quietly, falling into an unwitting parade rest as he awaits Sherlock's answer.

 _'The bravery of a soldier'_  
Sherlock thinks to himself. Not one to run from much, John Watson. Sherlock respects it. He respects a man who can face down rejection and keep going. It's not a common trait.

"Coffee would be good." Sherlock says quietly, and the smile that lights up those obsidian eyes is all it takes for Sherlock to know he's made the right decision.

"Perfect, go and have your shower, then meet me at by the main exit in an hour?" John asks.

"Yes." Sherlock says adding a single nod of his head for emphasis.

"Wonderful, I'll see you soon Sherlock Holmes." John says, and with that smile still on his lips, he turns to leave the room, but Sherlock stops him.

"Wait. What did you come here for?" He asks, but John just looks confused, so Sherlock continues.

"When you first opened the door, you must have needed something. Some sort of lab work I could have helped you with?" He prods, trying to jog John's memory.

John's face smoothes with understanding and he turns back to face Sherlock fully.

"I came up here to ask a beautiful analyst for coffee, Sherlock. My mission has been accomplished." He says with that soft smile that makes Sherlock want to tease his finger over the crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

"See you in an hour." John says in a low voice, and then he turns, and leaves the room.

Sherlock spends 7 full minutes standing in the spot John left him in, hearing the word _'beautiful'_ echo through his mind in John Watson's voice, and then he practically _glides_ to the staff showers on a cloud.

He has a date to prepare for, and he absolutely refuses to be even a moment late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my laptop finally gave up on me, it was only a matter of time really. Luckily I email myself the chapters once I finish them, so none of the story was lost. But it does mean that I'm writing with my iPad and a bluetooth keyboard, so if you guys see any bad mistakes or autocorrections that I missed I'd love if you'd point them out to me!


	3. Black, Two Sugars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first date doesn't go _exactly_ as expected, but it doesn't go badly either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there! Yes I'm a week early again, sorry about that. I'm still ahead by 3 chapters though, so I thought it couldn't hurt to update for those of you keeping up with the boys.
> 
> Enjoy!

Exactly 58 minutes from the time John asked him for coffee, Sherlock is making his way to the main doors dressed, clean, and blessedly free of the awful red goo that he can't actually be very upset about. After all, it got him a coffee date with a certain army doctor who is sitting in a chair off to the side, ankles crossed, laughing happily at something someone next to him has said. Sherlock can't see who he's sitting with, but he feels a sharp, unwelcome pang of jealousy spear through his system at the idea that someone else is making John Watson smile that beautiful beaming smile of his. 

God he needs to pull it together.

As he makes his way around the corner, his shoulders relax, releasing tension he didn't even know was there at the sight of Dr. Mike Stamford.

Happily married, not gay, actually not a _complete_ idiot. If John is absolutely set on making friends of the god awful people in this establishment, Sherlock supposes that Stamford isn't the _worst_ choice he could make. 

"Ah, and there he is." Stamford says with a sincere smile, standing and holding out his hand to shake Sherlock's in greeting. "I had wondered what would happen when you two crossed paths, can't say I'm surprised. John always did have such a weakness for the pretty ones." 

Sherlock's eyes go wide and John attempts to hide his snicker at Sherlock's expression with a quiet cough while Mike gives Sherlock a disbelieving look. "Sherlock, I'm not gay, but I'm also not _blind_ mate. You're pretty, nothing to be done about that." He says, clapping a hand against Sherlock's shoulder in mock solemnity. 

"You two enjoy your coffee." He says with another of his honest, friendly smiles, and strolls off toward the elevators.

John stands, and gestures to the door. "The coffee here is basically just glorified tar, so I thought we'd go out instead, if that's alright?" He asks, and Sherlock nods his head and answers.

"That's absolutely fine. I don't really drink the coffee here. I prefer my coffee to actually have been something that resembles a coffee bean at some point in its lifetime." He says, and when John giggles high and light, it feels like someone has pumped him full of helium. Like he might float away at any moment.

John starts for the doors and Sherlock speaks.

"So, Mike Stamford. How did the pair of you become such good friends?" 

John smiles, soft and easy. 

"I've known Mike since I was a kid. We went to school here together, played on the university rugby team together, and when I got back from Afghanistan Mike helped me get this job." He explains, before going on to tell a funny story about Mike falling headlong into a mud pit back in their rugby days.

Sherlock nods his interest, and mentally bumps Stamford up to _definitely_ not the worst choice of friend for John, all the while trying almost desperately to banish the vision of a young John Watson with a rugby shirt pulled tight over his broad shoulders and chest, uniform shorts hugging thick stocky thighs, and socks pulled up to his knees, gently encasing strong, shapely calves.

He's so deep in his head that he's paying almost no attention to what's going around him, so it's less of a surprise and more of a shock when the toe of his shoe catches on the thin metal track of the sliding doors, and it sends him lurching forward, arms flailing as he tries to catch his balance.

A strong hand grips his elbow tight and _pulls_ , and before the ground can come up to meet him, he's standing again, blinking down at John as he tries to get a hold on which way is actually up.

"Sherlock, are you alright?!" John asks, looking up into Sherlock's startled eyes with genuine concern.

"Fine, I'm fine. Just a stumble. Nothing to fret over." He says, allowing a small smile of thanks to pass over his lips while his heart tries to beat straight through his ribs, because somehow John managed to catch him and all his weight on one arm like it was _nothing_.

God save him from gorgeous army captain doctors.

\-------------

They walk to a coffee shop just down the road, and Sherlock goes to place their orders while John makes a quick detour to the loo.

"Hello there gorgeous, what can I get you aside from my phone number?" The barista asks with what he must think is a seductive look, but really just makes him look uncomfortable, like someone is pricking him in the leg while he speaks.

Sherlock just barely keeps from rolling his eyes.

"Irish breakfast tea with milk, and a coffee. Black, two sugars, hold the phone number." He says as he waits for the bloke to put his order in so he can swipe his card. 

"Oh don't be like that sexy." The guy almost whines as he presses buttons on the register. "I could show you a much better time that that old guy you're here with, you can be sure about that." 

Sherlock gives in to the earlier urge to roll his eyes and walks away to find a table after he swipes his card, then folds himself gracefully into one of the chairs refusing to give this arsehole the satisfaction of watching his flop down in annoyance.

John returns from the bathroom and immediately notices that something is up from the tense set of Sherlock's shoulders and the hard line of his mouth. 

"What's the matter?" He asks, as he tucks a £10 note into Sherlock's hand and waves off the protestation he knew was coming.

"I asked _you_ out for coffee, so I pay. Now tell me what happened to wipe away your smile in the barely 5 minutes of time that I was gone." John commands gently, and Sherlock finds himself unable to disobey.

"The barista hit on me, and he wasn't nice about it either." He says, jaw clenching in annoyance.

Just then the barista calls out their order, and John stands before Sherlock can even think of moving, laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder before moving away to get their drinks so he doesn't have to deal with the jerk all over again.

When John gets back he sets Sherlock's cup in front of him, sits down across from him, and takes a sip of his tea.

"Do I want to know, how you know how I take my-" John starts, but is cut off when the barista walks over, and very pointedly puts his back to him. Sherlock frowns and glances up, then looks back at John and watches the deadly storm brewing behind his eyes. 

The barista, oblivious to John's anger, pulls out his wallet and takes out a piece of paper with his name and phone number on it.

"If you ever decide you'd like me to take you out, or to bed for that matter, call me." He says boldly, and with a creepy smile he attempts to pass the paper to Sherlock.

John's jaw clenches and he opens his mouth to say something Sherlock is sure will not be kind, going by the look in his eyes, so Sherlock takes a deep breath and heads him off.

"Leave us alone, or I will find and tell your very pregnant fiancée that you spend your free time willingly turning tricks at gay clubs because you like being held down and fucked." He says in a low, vicious tone, smiling across at the table at John's shocked expression.

The barista's eyes go wide with shock and shame. "Does she know you're a rent boy? Does she even know that you like men? Or that you paid for her engagement ring with money you earned on your hands and knees in strange beds?"

The guy stammers, "You, you're a bloody fuckin-" 

"One more word, and I will make you choose which appendage I rip from your body." John's voice is low and cold with the promise of retribution should whatever insult the barista has prepared manage cross his lips.

"He'll do it." Sherlock adds in a carefully unaffected tone. "He's an army captain and a trauma surgeon, it would be only too easy." He finishes with a nonchalant shrug.

The barista's eyes widen and dart back and forth between the two of them.

"You're mad, the both of you." He mutters, and scurries off back to the cash register.

"Take these to go?" John suggests, gesturing to their drinks.

"Yes." Sherlock answers immediately, and they stand together and leave the shop.

"How did you know all of that?" John asks the moment the door shuts behind them, looking up at Sherlock in amazed awe.

"Bruises on his wrists and neck. He tried to hide them with his shirt and hair, but unfortunately for him, I'm more observant than the average person." Sherlock days with a soft smile.

"Yeah but that could be anything. Could have been assault for all you knew." John counters and Sherlock shakes his head in the negative.

"They were too static and stationary. He didn't fight or try to get away. He enjoyed and encouraged it." 

"So how'd you know he was a prostitute? Couldn't he have just been having an affair?" John asks

"Possibly, but his watch and wallet were too high quality to be paid for by a part time job in a coffee shop, and he's not from a wealthy family, he's turning tricks for cash. Not to mention he keeps pre written bits of paper in his wallet with his contact information on them."

John shakes his head and grins up at Sherlock.

"How'd you know about the pregnant girlfriend then, hmm? Or was that just a clever guess?"

"I never guess, Sherlock replies with a smug grin, ecstatic that John is so honestly _interested_ in what he does. He's never had anyone _ask_ for explanations of his deductions before. 

"When he opened his wallet to get the paper, there was a picture of her and him. She was about five months along I'd say, and his hair was shorter, so factoring in average rate of hair growth for a man his age she would be just under the 9 month duration of the human gestation period." He finishes.

"And you got all that, from bruises and a photo?" John asks incredulously.

"And a wallet, and a watch." Sherlock adds, eyes twinkling with mirth.

"You're amazing. Absolutely brilliant Sherlock." John breathes out in astonishment making Sherlock's cheeks flame red and his lips pinch together as he fights not to smile too hard at the compliments.

"It was nothing really, just simple observation." He says, quietly amazed that John has managed to bring forth some semblance of humility out of his normally very self assured, and yes, arrogant personality.

"Nothing simple about that." John disagrees. "I certainly couldn't do it." 

"Because you're an idiot." Sherlock replies before his brain recognizes what his mouth is saying, then he winces and turn to John, expecting anger or hurt. But John just laughs, long and loud.

"Yes well, I suppose we all are in one way or another." John stops and let's his eyes slide slowly over Sherlock's body. His gaze so palpable Sherlock's swears he feels it like a caress on his skin.

"But I'm very good at other things Sherlock. Very, very good." He says in a soft, sultry tone.

"Things like what?" Sherlock asks shyly, then looks up and only just realizes they're back in front of the hospital.

"Well, if we have enough of these dates, you may just find out." John replies with a wicked smirk.

Sherlock blushes and bites at his bottom lip.

"Then we should probably schedule another date soon, yes?" He asks in a low voice, feeling completely off kilter. 

John's smile goes soft. "I'd like that. How about we exchange phone numbers, and I'll call you later to see when you're next available?" John asks, and Sherlock peers down at him, a small smile tipping his lips.

"I prefer to text." He says, mischief glittering in his eyes, even as he wonders how this unassuming man manages to make him smile like no one has before.

John pulls out his phone and hands it to Sherlock with a laugh. Grinning as Sherlock saves his name and number into his phone.

"Then I'll text you."


	4. A Colleague

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so blossoms a partnership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I promised every other Wednesday and I keep my promises. So here we are darlings, I hope you like this one! 
> 
> Enjoy!

"Have you seen Sherlock?" John asks Mike as he passes him in the hospital halls.

Mike swallows around a bit of the granola bar he's just had a bite of and winces. 

"Mmm, try the staff lounge on 5. He usually scares everyone out of there and sits for hours on end when he needs a quiet spot." He answers, then looks down at the wrapper in his hand with a frown.

"What's with the granola?" John asks with an amused and confused expression. 

"Ellie wants me to come down a bit." He says with a quick pat to his belly. "She's worried about my health and all that, so it been granola and steamed veg for about two weeks now. God it's all so bloody awful. Now I remember why I don't eat this crap in the first place. I hate healthy food." He says with a sigh.

"What's with the uniform? He tosses back at John and John gives a guilty smile.

"Ducked out of a party just a little bit early." He says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

"I'd take you out for a burger, but well, Ellie frightens me mate." He says with a laugh and Mike returns it.

"She scares the piss out of me John, why else do you think I'm actually eating this crap?" He asks with a smile, holding up the granola and giving it a shake. 

"Go find your boy, I've got to head back." Mike says, and jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

"He's not 'my' anything Mike. We're only friends." John responds and laughs when he looks up to see Mike's unimpressed expression.

Mike rolls his eyes and gestures towards the elevators. "Go find your _'friend'_ , then." He tosses back, leveling John a look that says he's fooling no one.

John just gives him a serene smile and makes his way to the lifts.

\--------------

John peeks his head inside the door of the staff lounge and, lo and behold, there's Sherlock. He's sitting in a chair surrounded on three sides by large rectangular tables covered in notes and photos and file folders while leaning over a set of papers, a marker clamped between rose pink lips, and the sleeves of his black button down rolled up to just under his elbows with the long elegant fingers of his left hand carded messily through his hair. Before John can get the door open more than a crack Sherlock's voice lashes out low and cold.

"Leave." 

John frowns, and almost turns to leave, but Sherlock hadn't even looked up and Mike _did_ say that he purposely scares people off this particular room.

"But I only just got here." John says casually, clamping down harshly on the relived laugh that nearly bubbles out of him when Sherlock's head snaps up at his voice.

"John." He breathes out as his eyes scan John from head to toe, taking him in. This means John has the absolute _pleasure_ of watching dawning realization spread over Sherlock's face in the form of a pale pink flush when the young analyst notices his uniform.

"C-Captain Watson, what can I do for you?" Sherlock stammers out and then swallows thickly, his perfect mouth pouting out a bit with the motion. 

John raises an eyebrow at him and swings a chair around until the seat is facing himself, then straddles it, and folds his arms across the top of it while grinning over the table at Sherlock.

"Captain Watson hmm?" John asks, an impish smile on his face as he watches Sherlock bite shyly at the plump lower lip that's been calling to him since he first set his eyes on the brilliant beautiful blushing boy across from him that calls him "Captain Watson" when he sees John in full dress.

Sherlock clears his throat and looks back down at his notes.

"What are you doing here? You look as if you'd have better places to be." Sherlock asks in a tone that says he's speaking and choosing his words very deliberately, like he's afraid he'll stumble over them again if he isn't extra careful.

John schools his face and answers.

"Left a military function a bit early to come check on a patient who was having an emergency. Got lucky though. He stabilized quickly and is doing much better." He rattles off in a pleasant tone.

Sherlock stifles a smile.

"So you lied about a work emergency and scarpered at the first chance, then came here to do a quick round and assuage the guilt?" He queries.

John grins

"Something like that, yeah." He nods. "How'd you get so smart?" He asks in jest as he swipes a hand down over his beard.

"Genetics." Sherlock shoots back, and he can't help the smile that spreads across his lips as John huffs out a laugh.

"It couldn't have been all that bad, the party." Sherlock points out.

"No, not bad, just terribly bloody boring. But I got to see some faces I likely wouldn't get to see otherwise, and I get to see pretty boys like you go all wide eyed and pink when they see me in my uniform." John responds, eyes twinkling with mirth as yet another soft flush steals over Sherlock's fair skin. "So no, it's not _all_ bad, not really." He finishes with a teasing smile, and Sherlock keeps his head down, refusing to look up into those eyes that he _knows_ will be shining with mystery and mischief.

"So, what's all this?" John asks, offering up a change of topic that Sherlock grabs at gratefully.

"Working on a case." Sherlock answers, and John can hear the tiny bit of bitterness in his tone that says the case isn't going well.

"Go on then." John says, and Sherlock looks up at him in question.

"The case, let's hear it. Might help you if you say it out loud. Can't say I'm the most observant bloke, but I'm pretty damn good at listening." He responds, leaning his head down against his hands and peering over the top of the chair back into Sherlock's gleaming kaleidoscopic eyes as he waits for Sherlock to begin.

Sherlock makes a strange expression, but then the words flow from his lips and it's all John can do to keep up.

"The curator of the British Museum was searching through the lower archives for a very rare text he was going to use as a reference for a book he was writing. An hour after he left to begin his research he was found in the middle of the room dead by asphyxiation, but with no trace of the _cause_. No poisons, toxins, ligature marks or even the smallest of any other sign to denote the source of suffocation. I need to puzzle out the 'how' and 'why' so the 'who' becomes readily apparent." Sherlock answers in one long stream of thought, not even stopping to breathe.

"Lower archives?" John asks. "You mean like those funny little temperature and humidity controlled rooms made to house old stuff that doesn't do well in the elements?" He finishes and Sherlock's head jerks up, verdigris eyes pinning him in place.

"Say that again." Sherlock demands and John cocks his head but does.

"What? That some of those old books don't do well with the elements? I'm sure you don't nee-"

"No." Sherlock cuts him off, waving a hand as if to bat away such idiocy. "Before that, the part about the room. Temperature and humidity controlled." He says thoughtfully as he rummages through the various forms of evidence before him. He finds the folder he's searching for and scans over a page for just a quick moment.

"Stupid, I've been so stupid." Sherlock rants, standing and stuffing all his papers into a large case that he then locks in a small file cabinet stashed in the back of the room. 

"I've got to get to the British Museum." He says to John, and then sweeps out of the room.

John catches him up, and tugs gently at his wrist.

"Can I ask _why_ exactly you're going to the museum where a murderer is likely still traipsing about?" John asks, feeling the sudden urge to protect Sherlock from whatever danger could be lurking in the near future.

"Because that murderer is on the loose John, and he's going to kill again very soon unless I stop him." Sherlock says, gently freeing his hand from John's grasp as he moves toward the lifts again.

John walks alongside him and continues his questioning as they step onto the elevator.

"Why not call the police? Clearly you've got a lead, isn't this where you should turn over the information and let them do their jobs?" He asks without even a hint of disdain or command, and it makes Sherlock smile. That John actually just wants to _know_. He doesn't think Sherlock is insane, he's simply _curious_. Someone else being interested in Sherlock's work purely for the sake of it is a rather novel experience and Sherlock can admit (to himself) to being very thoroughly charmed by Captain John Watson MD.

"The police will only muddle everything up and he'll get away before I can find proof. It has to be me." 

"Us." John corrects and Sherlock stares down at him in astonishment.

"Yes well, I can't keep you from going, but I also can't send you off to catch a murderer on your own. You'll end up with a bullet in that big brilliant brain of yours, you great clot." He says, shaking his head and muttering under his breath about 'zero sense of self preservation'. 

"We'll stop by my place so I can arm myself, and _then_ we will go and stop this madman killing anyone else, yeah?" John asks as he and Sherlock step from the lift.

Sherlock gives John a look a extreme inconvenience while simultaneously grinning at him with shining eyes as if John himself had somehow managed to hang every star in the night sky.

"Yes, fine. I suppose having an army captain and medical doctor at my side couldn't hurt, but when we get to your flat, don't change your clothes. Your uniform should be able to get us inside without me having to break any laws, which will in turn afford us more time to search the scene for what I'm looking for."

"Yes, and what exactly _are_ you looking for here Sherlock?" John asks seriously as they exit the hospital and turn towards the kerb to flag a cab.

Sherlock smiles down at him, soft and genuine and completely lit up from the inside. 

"Now that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really cannot thank you guys enough for all the kind words and feedback. You're wonderful and I adore every single one of you! 
> 
> Take heed that the chapters are going to start to lengthen soon, and I will see you guys 2 Wednesday's from now! See you soon!


	5. This Is Your Captain Speaking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case is solved, and a deal is struck... Kinda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, happy second Wednesday! I worked super hard on this chapter guys, so I hope you like it! 
> 
> A HUGE thank you to [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for the lightning quick beta and heaps of encouragement as I worked!
> 
> All mistakes are my own, and y'all already know about italics. 
> 
> Enjoy!

In the taxi on their way to John's flat Sherlock shows John pictures of the curator. He quickly familiarizes him with the specifics of the case, impressed with how well John keeps up, he soaks the information in and is able to draw fast conclusions from it all that most others would never. John Watson is quick on his feet, and knowing this does nothing to help Sherlock stop lusting after him in that bloody fucking uniform.

The stop at John's is just that. A stop. Sherlock doesn't even look up from his phone when John opens the door. He sends John inside to get what he needs and stays back to hold the cab.

Moments later John is back, and just a few spare minutes after that, they're on the street and walking up to the doors of the British museum.

They make their way inside and are soon greeted by the pleasant, if confused, face of the museum director and wife of the deceased curator. Sherlock steps in and extends his hand.

"Hello, I'm Sherlock Holmes." He begins but is cut off by the director.

"Yes, I remember you. You were here during the initial investigation of my husband's death."

Sherlock gives her a false smile.

"Yes, that was me. This is Captain John Watson. He's here with me to take one last look around, so we can be sure we didn't miss anything." Sherlock explains.

The director nods, and holds a hand out to John, who takes it.

"Elsie Worthington." She offers, and John nods in response, tipping his head and gracing her with a small sympathetic smile.

"I am very sorry for your loss ma'am." He speaks and watches as her chin begins to tremble.

"Thank you." She replies once she takes a deep soothing breath. "Whatever you need is yours gentlemen, you have free reign. Any of our maintenance staff will be happy to personally escort you anywhere you wish to be. If you'll excuse me, I have arrangements I must finalize." She says, and just as she's about to step away, one of the aforementioned maintenance staff comes into view and she calls him over.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes, Captain Watson, this is Bryce Boyd. Bryce, this is Sherlock Holmes and Captain John Watson. They're here working on the investigation of Richard's death. Please see them around and help them as they wish." She instructs and Bryce nods his acquiescence. 

Sherlock turn to Bryce.  
"Would you show Dr. Watson to Dr. Worthington's office? I know my way down to the archives. John, find me there when you finish up here, yes?" Sherlock asks calmly, looking over to catch John's eyes.

John nods. 

"Yeah sure, I'll be down in a bit. Soon as I finish in the office." He answers and Sherlock gives him a smile, then turns and walks away.

Bryce leads John down a long dark hall, then turns off a corner into a small nook with a door on either side of it. He pulls a key from his ring and opens the door to let John inside. Bryce turns on a few lamps and John finds himself in a large, very masculine, very traditional looking sort of office. Lots of dark wood, and shelves upon shelves of books. Rare, old, leather bound tomes written in Greek and Latin. It's smells like a library, with a faint hint of sandalwood.

"If that's all you'll be needing, I should get back to work sir." Bryce says and it snaps John from his reverie.

"Yes, I can find my way back from here. Thank you very much Bryce." 

"It's no problem at all Dr. Watson. Terrible thing that happened to Mr. Worthington. We all just want to help." He says with a sad smile, then he turns and leaves the room. 

John stands in the office looking around, unsure of what he should be doing when he gets a text.

> _"Search for any evidence at all of an extramarital affair. -SH"_

  
"Evidence of an extramarital affair." John murmurs to himself, as he pokes through the pictures on the mantle before moving along to the desk.

As he makes his way there, he sidesteps a large pile of books set on the floor against it, but his hip brushes the topmost one and a few of them topple.

"Shit." He mutters, and bends to pick them up. He picks up a large brown text and it's been so well read that the spine sags and the pages flip open, a few papers and a bookmark slipping to the floor. John places the book carefully on the end of the desk and reaches to pick up the largest paper only to realize it's actually a photograph. He turns it over and nearly drops it again, because in the photo, with both arms wrapped around Dr. Worthington's waist, the top of his head tucked into the base of Richard's neck, and a smile bigger than the sun on his face beaming directly into the camera... Is Bryce Boyd.

"Sherlock!" John hisses, and takes off at a dead run.

Even as he's running, he realizes he has no idea where he's going, but luckily as he turn the corner he runs into another of the staff.

"Hello, Captain John Watson, I need you to take me to the archives." He says, and the young man's face crumples in confusion, but John doesn't have time to waste.

"Quickly!" He barks out and it sends a start through the man for which John is sorry and will later apologize, but right now he needs to get to Sherlock.

The young man, who doesn't introduce himself walks John quickly through the halls and to what must be a staff lift. He swipes his keycard, gestures John on, then swipes it again before stepping off.

He holds the doors open while he explains.

"When I let go, press LA there." He indicates the button on the panel. "You look like you're here about Dr. Worthington, yeah?" John nod quickly trying to speed up this process. "When the lift opens go straight for five rows then left for two. You'll end up right in front of the doors." He finishes, and John bounces his head frustratedly, unable to sigh in relief when the guy let's go of the door and it slides shut. 

He won't be relieved until he finds Sherlock.

When the lift opens silently John rushes out and starts running all over again, counting the stacks as he goes. He slows as he comes up on the fifth stack, and pokes his head around. 

What he sees is a large glass room, with a small wooden table in the centre and stacks of old, antique looking books inside. He can also see Sherlock, pale, lying on the floor inside the room, and John can't see from here if he's breathing but if what happened to Dr. Worthington is any indication, the odds are he's not. 

And there. Just on this side of the door, clearly watching Sherlock suffocate, is Bryce Boyd.

John moves quietly toward him, and when he's close enough to be heard clearly, he pulls out the sig and takes aim.

"Open the door or die, your choice." His voice is low, and cold enough that he watches a terrified shiver work its way down Bryce's back. John has no intentions of shooting him, because he doesn't have to code to the keypad on the door, but there's no need for Bryce to know that.

John thumbs down the hammer and watches Bryce put a shaking hand into his pocket and pull out a slip of paper with handwritten numbers on it. He punches the numbers into the keypad in front of him, and the door swishes open. 

Once the door opens John steps forward and sweeps Bryce's legs back toward him while simultaneously shoving his head forward, the result being that the would be killer loses all sense of balance, his head bashes off the glass, and he crumbles to the ground unconscious.

John feels the whoosh of air being sucked into the room, and wonders what the fuck is going on, but he doesn't stop to find out he just rushes in and drops to his knees at Sherlock's side. 

He checks for a pulse, and he finds one, strong, if a little unsteady. He leans his head over Sherlock's mouth and nose and when he feels a puff of warm air on his cheek he breathes a deep sigh of relief. John tosses a quick look to Sherlock's still knocked out attacker, carefully works one arm beneath Sherlock's neck and his other beneath his knees, then lifts him gently and carefully maneuvers his long body through the doorway and out of the room. When the cooler air outside the small enclosed room hits them, Sherlock's eyes blink open hazily and for a moment he stills in John's arms, then he looks up to see John peering back down at him, eyes pinched with concern and all he can do is tuck his head into John's shoulder and breathe trying not to marvel at the strength of John's arms.

John sets him on the floor with his back up against the closest stack and leans back to get a good look at him, happy to see the pale grey of Sherlock's skin returning to his usual roses and cream complexion.

"How are you feeling?" John asks, lifting Sherlock head and peering into his eyes, as if he would somehow be able to suss out and brain damage is he just managed to stare deep enough.

"Dizzy." Sherlock croaks, his mouth and throat desert dry.

John slips out of his uniform jacket when he watches a shiver chase its way through Sherlock's body and drapes it around the young man's thin frame, while wishing he had some water for him.

"Yeah well, that's to be expected. Take your time, and a few deeps breaths. Once you've got your wits about you and you're feeling up to it, you can explain to me what the bloody fuck is going on." John says in a calm monotone that makes Sherlock give grace him with a small smile. He looks up and John, but before he can open his mouth his phone buzzes in his his trouser pocket, and he fishes it out to glare at the screen, but when he sees the name he answers it immediately and gets shakily to his feet.

"Lestrade, detain the director by any means necessary, we'll be up and in front of the staff service elevator in about 5 minutes." He speaks roughly into the phone and taps the end button before whoever was on the other end of the line would have possibly had any chance to respond.

Sherlock looks over at John.

"Can you help me get him back to the elevator?" He asks, and John nods, rolling the guy fully onto his back then lifting him up gently by his shoulders until the man groans and drops his head into his hands. 

Sherlock marvels at the methodical care John provides this man that he himself must have incapacitated, and wishes he could have been awake to see. He wonders idly if Lestrade will lend him the security tape.

John, who is angry, but is not enough of an arsehole to toss around a man who likely already has a concussion, leads Bryce slowly to the lift, then presses him into the back corner and allows the man to slip back down into a crouch so he can cradle his aching head and maybe, just maybe, not vomit all over everyone when the lift jolts upward.

Sherlock clears his throat, trying to dispel the leftover rasp in his voice, and Bryce curls in on himself tighter as if the sound is too much to bear. Sherlock is almost tempted to do it again, the murderous bastard, but he glances over at John who is looking up at him with deep blue eyes full of worry and decides no.

The lift opens and Sherlock sees DI Greg Lestrade and Sgt. Sally Donovan a few meters fboth with their hands held out before them, clearly trying to placate an irate Elsie Worthington. 

Sherlock strides from the lift and over to where they're standing as John helps Bryce from the lift and let's him lean up against the wall.

Sherlock watches Mrs. Worthington glance at Bryce nervously before she pulls down a mask of disdainful indifference.

"Lestrade, sergeant Donovan, director Worthington, if you would all step this way, this matter will all be cleared up quite easily." He says in that drawling, posh voice of his, and when they make their way back, John straightens his spine and a stands at attention.

"Well, now that we're here, let's just have it all out, yes?" Sherlock asks almost gleefully, and Lestrade shakes his head fondly.

"Alright, shoot." He says in a warm, almost proud tone. He pulls a biro and pad from his jacket pocket and Sherlock starts.

"Well, if we're going to be technical, this man is your killer." Sherlock says gesturing down at Bryce. He just attempted to kill me in the same manner he did Dr. Worthington, so you may place him under arrest. Carefully though, he has a head wound." He says, and John smiles over at him while Sally moves to put the still sitting Boyd in cuffs.

"Now things get more interesting." Sherlock says with a shark like smile as he rounds on Mrs.Kentworthy. 

"Mrs. Worthington is being forced to resign. The museum board is full of messy busybodies and the position of director is a fickle one. Subject to the whims of the board." He takes a step closer to her and begins to circle, making her draw in tight to herself to keep them from brushing against one another. 

John watches Sherlock's body move with all the sinuous grace of a great cat and has to be sure to keep his mouth closed so he doesn't gape in awe.

"Dr. Worthington had decided to stay here without her, and feeling _rather_ betrayed, she devised a plan to be rid of him. Didn't you, Director?" Sherlock asks, and Elsie folds her arms over her chest.

"I did no such thing, I _loved_ my husband." She says, voice thick wth false tears.

"Oh that's not true. "He intones. "You haven't loved your husband for years. Not since you realized he was having an affair with Mr. Boyd here." And with that Sherlock stoops down before Bryce and lifts his head with two fingers, behind his head up to catch his gaze, then let's his hand drop.

"What did she tell you? That he had never even broached the topic of divorce? If so she lied, he'd broached the topic many times. I have copies of the divorce papers he'd had drawn up in my files at work. You were the reason he'd elected to stay here." Sherlock peers into pained eyes and watches tears gather in the corners, then carefully slips his free hand into the man's trouser pocket to retrieve a small slip of paper. 

"The man you love is dead by your own hand, because she lied to and manipulated you. She was never going to split the insurance with you. After she had you dispose of me, she was going to give you up to the police and enjoy her quiet life with all of her loose ends very neatly eliminated." He passes the paper to John who opens it and looks down at it in confusion.

Sherlock stands.

"The rooms downstairs that hold some of the more precious artifacts are engineered to suck all the oxygen from the room in mere seconds in case of a fire. If the heat signature goes too high, the door closes, the oxygen is removed, and the glass room becomes all but fireproof. A rather ingenious way to keep them safe, honestly I applaud the design. That being said, only two people on staff are supplied with the manual override codes." He turns beck to Elsie.

"The curator and the director." Sherlock reaches his hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card then holds his hand out to John for the paper. He holds the card out to Lestrade 

"This is the card she gave me when I first took this case. She wrote her name and personal number on the back and asked me to keep her abreast of the investigation." He takes a quick breath then passes over the paper.

"This is the scrap of paper she wrote the override code on for Mr.Boyd when she instructed him on how to kill Dr. Worthington. Very similar handwriting, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock turns to John, and John, who has been standing and staring in awe as Sherlock draws all the lines and connects all the dots, blinks the stars from his eyes and glances back up at Sherlock. 

"If you would be so kind as to show the officers whatever proof of an affair you found that brought you so quickly to my aid?" He asks softly, and John reaches forward, dipping his hand into the pocket of his uniform jacket, that Sherlock only just realizes is still slung around his shoulders, to tug the photo free and hand it to Lestrade.

Lestrade's eyes dart from the picture to John to Sherlock to the jacket and back to Sherlock, but he decides that now isn't the time, and accepts the photograph from John's outstretched hand.

Sherlock turns back to Bryce.

"Handwriting analysis isn't enough to put her away or tie her to the murder of her husband. If you don't speak, she'll very likely walk free." He offers, and Bryce nods, silent tears flowing down his cheeks.

"However," Sherlock says, as he pulls a phone that very clearly isn't his from his breast pocket, and Elsie gasps and makes a grab for it, leaving Sally to have to restrain her. 

Sherlock taps at the screen while smoothly handing John back his own jacket with just the barest hint of a blush on the apples of his cheeks. When the phone opens, Sherlock grins wide and terrible at Mrs. Worthibgton then opens the messaging interface, and holds it out for John to read before passing it to Lestrade, who reads it aloud for Donovan.

> _"Ditch the army robot and kill the detective."_

  
"I imagine she'll spend a great deal of time in prison either way." Sherlock finishes with a flourish and the words slip out of John mouth before he ever even knows it's coming.

"That's brilliant! Sherlock you're amazing!" He gasps out, eyes glittering as he stares up at Sherlock in awestruck bewilderment.

Sherlock goes pink and Sally looks at John as if he's managed to sprout two extra heads, but shrugs her shoulders and leads a raging Elsie to the squad car and a softly weeping Bryce to the waitin ambulance.

"Sherlock who is this?" Lestrade asks, now that there along, gesturing in John's direction.

"Captain John Watson, M.D. And a colleague." Sherlock says just as John steps forward and offers Greg his hand.

"John Watson, a friend." 

Greg peers over at him suspiciously, even as he heaps his hand and shakes.

"Well Dr. Watson. For right now I'll say thank you for saving Sherlock, he's like a kid brother to me so I appreciate you keeping him safe, lord knows he doesn't try hard enough in that area himself." Lestrade grumble tossing Sherlock an annoyed look. "But should you ever become _not_ a friend? Well then you may just come up on charges for that illegal firearm you're carrying that I know nothing about." He says with a vaguely threatening smile, and Sherlock stills hoping Lestrade's misplaced desire to protect him isn't the thing that will send John running for the hills.

"How about some time next week we all meet up for a pint? Then you can see for yourself that I have no desire to hurt your _'kid brother'_." John replies with a raised eyebrow, and Sherlock mentally winces at the invisible quotes.

Lestrade smiles. "Sounds good. Sherlock can give you my number since I doubt he'll be content to play messenger, and we can set something up." He says in a much more personable tone.

"It was nice to meet you Dr. Watson." He finishes, but John waves it off.

"John, please." He responds. "And it was very nice to meet you as well detective inspector." But Greg makes a face.

"Greg is just fine." The DI replies, before turning and walking away to go help Sally with the suspects.

John turns to Sherlock. "You should go over and get looked at. We don't know how long you were out Sherlock. Oxygen deprivation is not a game." But even as he's speaking Sherlock is shaking his head hard enough that his curls bounce around his ears.

"No hospital. I see enough of Bart's when I'm working, and the last thing I need is any of our colleagues seeing me be wheeled inside on a stretcher. Besides, you're a doctor and you're looking at me. Consider that medical attention and let's call it a night." He says with a scowl and John frowns to hide a smile, but nods.

"Fine, but if you're not going to let them look at you, you're going to come back to mine. We will order a takeaway because I can't remember ever seeing you eat and you're thin as a rail, so choose wisely because you will be eating it." He says, pointing a finger at Sherlock. "And you will sleep in the guest room tonight so that I can keep an eye on you and make sure you're doing as well as you say you are." Sherlock opens his mouth but John cuts him off.

"If you argue I will take you to hospital myself Sherlock." He says in a low, calm tone and Sherlock knows he will do it. He will sit with him in a taxi and frog march him directly into A&E if he has to, so Sherlock just nods sagely.

"I won't try anything at all, I'm not a monster, if that's what you're worried about. I just want to make sure you're okay Sherlock. That's all." John says gently and Sherlock scoffs haughtily.

"If I weren't one hundred percent sure of your control over yourself I would never have agreed. It's not that, it's just... Well I'm not very used to being told what to do, am I?" Sherlock asks, and John smiles and gestures for the door. He keeps a watchful eyes on Sherlock who John greatly suspects isn't feeling as well as he's pretending he does.

At the kerb Sherlock throws up an arm when a taxi comes down the road, and John ushers Sherlock inside.

"Any ideas on what you want to eat?" John asks, pulling out his phone, and Sherlock looks back at him.

"I'm not all that hungry John, really." Sherlock says, turning back to the window.

John sighs and leans forward, tapping to get the cabbie's attention.

"Sorry, change of plans, could you take us to-"

"No. NO! Just take us to the flat, thank you." Sherlock speaks over John, then turns back to him with eyes that are somehow simultaneously amused and annoyed.

"Thai, some sort of dumpling. No hospital, just, dumplings please." Sherlock says, the words coming out stilted and halting. Sherlock has never had anyone around him so hellbent on _caring_ for him other than his overbearing brother, and he's not quite sure how he's supposed to respond.

John pats his hand gently on the bench of the cab.

"There, that wasn't so hard now was it?" He asks, and Sherlock locks his teeth to keep from blushing.

John places a call to have their food delivered, and just as he ends it, the cab stops in front of his building.

John pulls out his wallet and pays the cabbie. "Here ya go mate. Keep the change." Then turns back to Sherlock.

"Come on." He says in a genial tone. "Food will be here in 30 minutes. Just enough time to get cleaned up." And he takes Sherlock's hand to help him from the car, then steps around him to put his key in the door, which he then holds open for Sherlock.

They ride the lift up, and once they're on John's floor they step off and Sherlock follows John to a door that he slides a key into and opens for Sherlock to step inside. 

The flat is wide and open. The space is airy but cozy all at once with dark, gleaming hardwood floors and high ceilings and light colored overstuffed furniture. It's casually masculine, neat as a pin, and Sherlock gets the idea that John doesn't spend a lot of time here. 

His eyes drift over the kitchen island, in plain view from the sitting room due to the open space design of the flat, and the large floor to ceiling windows that offer a gorgeous view of the city and Sherlock begins to wonder how John has managed to pay for this kind of lavishness. It's not obscene by any means. It's tasteful, which Sherlock happens to know all too well tends to cost quite a bit more than gaudy baubles and gauche design. The idea of John dealing in some sort of crime comes to mind but he quickly dispels the notion. John Watson is much to good a person to do anything of the sort, and besides, if he were up to no good, Sherlock would have absolutely spotted it by now. He makes a mental note to eventually ask John how he affords this lifestyle, but as hard as it is, for now he lets it go and walks over to the windows to peer out at the lights of the city he loves.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" John asks in a low voice, and Sherlock nods his agreement, but when he turns to him he finds John looking, not out at London, but up at him.

Sherlock's face flames red, and John smiles, then turns towards the hall.

"Make yourself at home, I'll be back in just a moment." He says and Sherlock leans against the wall and watches London.

When John comes back from his bedroom carrying a pair of pyjama bottoms that he's never worn because his sister bought them a bit too long, and a plain white t shirt, he gets halted at the head of the hall when Sherlock comes into view.

He's got one shoulder leaned against the wall, arms folded over his chest, and the long lean line of his body angled gently away from his support. He's bloody _beautiful_. Ethereal with the way the shadows and moonlight play with the angles of his face, highlight the glossy sheen of his curls, and leave verdigris eyes gleaming with the intensity of his thoughts. 

John takes a moment to lament the fact that he doesn't know how to paint or sculpt, because surely with Sherlock as his muse he would be world renowned in just a few scant years.

He walks into the room and flicks on a lamp to lighten both the room and the cloying desire the darkness has managed to wash over him.

"Here you are." He says brightly, holding the clothes out to Sherlock and as Sherlock turns to him, John realizes Sherlock has the corner his lush pink lower lip pulled up between his teeth.

 _'Steady on'_ John mentally chides himself, and he forces himself not to stare as Sherlock steps over and takes the small bundle from his hands.

"Loo's the second door on the right, everything else you'll need will be in there. So, shower, get clean, and then back here for food, yeah?" John asks, and Sherlock nods, and without ever saying a single words, makes with way to the bathroom.

John let's out a deep sigh, considering the idea that this is going to be much _much_ harder than he thought, then turns to make his way to the ensuite off his bedroom.

\---------

When Sherlock leaves the bathroom he finds a thick, terry cotton dressing gown hanging on the outside knob of the door and he wraps it gratefully around himself before making his way barefoot to the kitchen, where the smell of spices is strong in the air and John is getting out plates when Sherlock stops him.

"We could eat it from the carton, it's just dumplings." He says with a shrug, picking one out of the little box and biting into it neatly. John grins and sets the plates back in the cabinet. Then settles on a stool at the island.

He looks over at Sherlock with questions in his eyes, and Sherlock is tempted to prompt him, just to have them out, but before he can, John takes a quick breath and starts to speak.

"Sherlock, can I ask you a somewhat personal question? Feel free to tell me to piss off if you don't want to answer it." He adds quickly when Sherlock's beautifully open expression gives way to a harsh mask of neutrality, but Sherlock nods.

"If you're so brilliant that you can do _all of that_ ," he emphasizes, waving his hands towards the windows to indicate the whole mess at the museum.

"If you can do all that, what the bloody hell are you doing working at Bart's?" He asks incredulously, and Sherlock's face relaxes, a small smile finding his lips.

"A few years back I had a drug problem, mostly cocaine, sometimes morphine." He says, and John schools his face into one of casual interest as Sherlock watches him. When he fails to garner a negative reaction he takes a breath and continues.

"I'm clean now, but then? Well, let's just say it was bad. My brother found me, and put me in a rehabilitation centre to get me clean, and while I was there, he put a hold on my trust until I'm 35. I'm given an reasonable stipend from it once a month to supplement my pay from the hospital but without the job I couldn't afford my bills. So I stay." He says with a careless shrug. It's a position most people have the unfortunate luck of being in and Sherlock isn't really inclined to care overmuch. So long as he still gets to take his cases, he'll work the labs at Bart's without complaint. There are worse jobs than getting to play in chemicals all day.

John frowns and pushes the carton of dumplings in Sherlock's direction.

"So you don't like it at Bart's?" He asks, and Sherlock gives him another quick shrug. 

"Not really, but I don't hate it either. There are worse jobs than getting to play in a lab all day. Mostly I don't care much for the people, present company excluded, but at this point they leave me alone and I return the favor. I'd like to spend more time working cases so that I could build my own personal clientele, but for now, I need the job to make ends meet." He says as he nibbles idly at the end of a dumpling, and when he looks up John is in deep thought, so he lets the topic drop and finishes his dumpling before picking up another. 

When John's gaze clears, he looks over at Sherlock.

"Would your brother freeze your stipend of you quit?" John asks and Sherlock shakes his head, swallowing around his bite of food.

"No, it's only conditional upon my sobriety, so long as I pass a drug test every three months, I'm clear." He says with a mildly confused expression as he wonder where John is going with his line of questioning.

The answer hits him just as the words come out of John's mouth.

"So quit the hospital and stay here." John says, and Sherlock looks at him, mouth hanging open in shock.

"Not like that!" John says with a loud laugh.

"As _flatmates_ Sherlock. Use your stipend to help me with the bills, and to take care of personal items. That'll give you all the free time you need to work on cases and hone your craft." He finishes seriously and looks over at Sherlock. He nudges the small container closer to Sherlock once again and Sherlock rolls his eyes but takes another dumpling.

"Why would you do that for me?" Sherlock asks quietly, breaking his bit of food in half and eating at the filling before nibbling at the leftover crusts.

"To be honest, it's partly selfish. You're fun to be around, and I could use the company. Also I've got like, four extra bedrooms, so why not?" John says gesturing down the hall before picking out a dumpling of his own and biting it neatly in half, chewing and swallowing before he finishes.

"And besides all that you're my friend, and I want you have the things that will make you feel fulfilled and happy." He says, standing and moving to the refrigerator to grab two bottles of water.

"I... Can I think about it?" Sherlock asks, and John smiles that big happy smile of his.

"Absolutely. You never have to bring it up again if you don't want to. Just know that the offer is there." He says, handing Sherlock a water and sliding back onto his chair.

Sherlock let's out a deep breath and claps his hands together loudly.

"So, since we're telling long and intimately personal stories I think I should get to ask you a question now." Sherlock says as he twists the cap from his water and takes a sip.

John nods. "That's fair. Go on then." He replies and Sherlock looks over at him.

"How. The hell. Are you paying for this flat?" Sherlock asks bluntly and John laughs so hard he has to grasp the counter to stay upright. He clutches his stomach with one arm and wipes the tears of laughter from his face with the other as he takes deep hitching breaths to try and steady his heaving lungs.

He looks up at Sherlock who is looking down at him with an expression that says he's trying, and failing, to wait patiently for John to answer his question.

John almost bursts into laughter all over again.

"Oh Sherlock, sometimes I forget just how clever you are." He gushes and Sherlock blushes faintly. "Most people know I'm a surgeon and to them "doctor" equals "rich" so it doesn't shock them all that much." He says, still chuckling softly.

"This is not richness John Watson this is wealth, and no amount of trauma surgeries will afford you this sort of luxury." He says plainly and John can't help but to smile at him. 

"When I was in Afghanistan we went on a lot of patrols. One day, it was my turn out and so my partner and I took a took a stroll along the perimeter, nothing new under the sun." John says quietly and Sherlock listens intently, leaning forward slightly in his intensity.

"We came across a man, lying in the sand with rags for clothes. He was covered in blood, had been shot in his leg and shoulder, and was barely breathing when we got there. Together we carried him back to base, and I performed his emergency surgery. When he woke a few days later, we had a translator brought in and I learned that his name was Vahid Sakhi. He was a prince who had dressed below his station to try and make his journey as safe as he could but still he was found, injured, and left for dead. He promised me, that when he made it home, he would see to it that ten percent of all his wealth would be mine. I told him it was unnecessary, that I'm a doctor and I took an oath, and that I was only doing my job, but he wouldn't hear any of it. I gave him my name and assumed I wouldn't hear much more about it." Sherlock nods for John to continue, but John raises one eyebrow at the last dumpling in the container then nods in Sherlock's direction and Sherlock huffs but picks it up and takes a bite, looking back at John interestedly.

John smiles.

"A few days later I got shot on another patrol." He says with a brief touch to his left shoulder. "I was rushed home after some emergency care back at base and honestly I just never really thought about it. I had enough going on with rehab and trying not to kill my physical therapist," He says wth a huffing laugh. "but a few weeks after I'd come back I got a call that a man by the name of Vahid was searching for me with some very important information so I told them to put me through, and Mr.Sakhi was on the other line. He was very intent on keeping his word and honoring the promise he made to me. I tried to deny him and was told very plainly by the interpreter that to do so would be the height of dishonor, so I let it go and said yes. How much could it be really? A few thousand pounds wouldn't hurt anything surely? Especially if it made him feel better about it all. It took months to get past all the red tape and bureaucracy and then one morning I woke up several hundred million pounds richer. And now? Now I honestly have more money than I know what to do with." John finishes, and Sherlock looks over at him and smiles.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you?" He asks, and John gives him a confused look and waits for an explanation.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He says with a small smile and John beams back at him.

"I have a temper." John tosses back. "And I tend to be a tad bit controlling." He finishes bluntly and Sherlock raises an eyebrow and gives the empty dumpling carton a long pointed look before turning back to John.

"You don't say." He says in a drawling monotone and John barks out a laugh.

"Fair enough." He chuckles then slaps his palms down on his thighs before sliding from his seat.

"It's been a very long day, and I for one, am tired. Spare phone chargers are in the drawer over there." And he points to the end table beside the smaller sofa.

"Choose any room you like, and I will see you in the morning." And before John can stop himself, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the top of Sherlock's head.

He steps away, and watches the blood flood Sherlock's face and neck, before giving the young man a kind smile.

"Goodnight Sherlock." John says quietly.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock replies, just as softly, then he watches John make his way to his own bedroom.

Sherlock stands, grabs a charger from the drawer, then moves quietly through the flat poking his head into each of the spare rooms. In the end he chooses the one closest to John's room, and he tells himself it's because this room has the biggest bed, but Sherlock is an expert at detecting lies, even when he's the one telling them to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! I told you guys the chapters would be getting longer although I _may_ have gotten a bit carried away with this one! Before this chapter the entire fic was 6,554 words, and this one chapter comes in at 6,584. So yeah, sorry for all the words, lol. 
> 
> I'll see you in a couple of Wednesday's darlings!


	6. Tailor Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How to pass a test you didn't know you were taking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there lovelies! I got a new job and am very excited so you guys get your new chapter early this time around!
> 
> Lots of love and thanks to [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for the lightening quick and wonderfully efficient beta. You're the cat's miaow darling!
> 
> All mistakes are my own!
> 
> Enjoy!

At some ungodly hour of the morning Sherlock is awakened by a gentle knock on his bedroom door. He presses his face deeper into the pillow to ignore them away until he realizes that the bed isn't his and the only person that could possibly be knocking is John.

He snuggles down deeper into the sheets and croaks out an invitation for John to come inside.

"Hey, how are you feeling?" John asks and he walks inside and places a bottle of water on the nightstand.

Sherlock grunts what he hopes is an affirmative response and pulls the blanket over his head with a groan when John switches on the lamp.

"Your limbs are working just fine then." He says with a soft chuckle. 

Sherlock peeks over the top of the blanket to shoot John a sleepy glare.

"Eyes as clear and beautiful as ever." John says as he goes down the mental checklist, grinning at the blush he doesn't have to _see_ to know is on Sherlock's face.

"Can I check your fingernails? After that a sip of water and I'll let you go back to sleep." Sherlock sticks one hand out of the blanket and John smiles at the bundled and wrapped Sherlock shaped lump in the bed.

"Nails look good, and you are going to be just fine." John announces.

Sherlock drags the blanket from over his head when he hears john twist the top from the water he brought with him. He could tell John that he doesn't need it, but he actually is rather thirsty so he accepts the bottle gratefully and drinks deeply until his thirst is sated.

John watches Sherlock's neck as he drinks, and has to fight the impulse to lean in and drag his tongue up and over the long creamy column of Sherlock's throat.

Finished, Sherlock hands the bottle back to John, who replaces it on the nightstand and then tugs the blankets back up around Sherlock's neck so the young man can go back to sleep.

Sherlock, in his sleepy fog, tilts his head up in a silent request for a kiss, and John _almost_ caves to see those soft plush lips being offered up to him in such a way, but he doesn't. Sherlock is sleepy, and unsure of what he's doing and John refuses to take advantage. If he ever gets to kiss those perfect lips it will be _after_ Sherlock can say yes and _mean_ it.

With that thought John takes Sherlock's head in his hands, and brushes a tender kiss to each of his soft, pale eyelids. 

"Get some sleep Sherlock, and I'll see you in the morning." He says softly, and with a gentle nod and a languid smile, Sherlock slips sweetly back into sleep.

\-----------

That same night, Sherlock dreams of John. He dreams of thin pink lips pressing gentle kisses to his mouth, and of calloused competent hands dragging over his skin. He dreams of tucking his head into the space of John's neck, moaning while John pulls at his cock until he can't stop the tide of pleasure that washes over him.

He wakes in a room that isn't his own, harder than he's ever been before in his life.

Sherlock groans and flips onto his stomach, hissing when the skin of his cock brushes against the inside of his borrowed pyjama bottoms and sends a frisson of pleasure racing down his spine. He licks his hand hurriedly, too frantic for orgasm to even consider checking the nightstand for lube, and shoves it inside with a gasp as his long agile fingers wrap around his aching erection and jerk harshly. He closes his eyes and presses his face into the pillow, rutting into his own hand and imagining John above him, whispering softly into his ear. 

"Oh god." He whines into the fabric of the pillowcase. "Please please please." He begs on the tail end of a low whimper to no one in particular, he just _wants_. He _craves_. He imagines how John must have looked last night bringing down Bryce and has to bite down on his lower lip to keep quiet so he doesn't bring John running in to check on him.

"Fuck." He murmurs, face pressed into the pillow as he recalls the softness of John's lips on his eyelids and the gentle expression on John's face just before he left Sherlock's room after checking on him earlier that morning. 

A few more thrusts into his hand is all it takes, and soon Sherlock stills, and spills into his hand with a low grunt.

And he knows at that moment, that he is absolutely going to take John up on his offer.

He lays there panting trying to catch his breath. As his heartbeat slows and he becomes aware of his surroundings again, he realizes that he hears voices coming from the sitting room, and that he knows _both_ of those voices all too well. 

With a deep sigh he stands and makes his way on silent feet to the loo so he can clean up the mess he's made of himself, and then he'll go see to the mess that is no doubt being made just a few rooms away.

\----------

When John woke that morning, he immediately knew something was off. He's always had good instincts and he's learned to heed their warnings so after he pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt, he tucks the Sig in at the base of his spine and walks casually into the living room, and through to the kitchen. He pretends he doesn't remember that he never pulled the shades last night so they have no reason to be closed right now. He pretends he doesn't see the shadowy figure sitting tall and straight in one of two large low backed chairs.

In the kitchen he removes a large serrated knife from the block on the counter and begins cutting thick slabs of bread from a loaf he takes from a gleaming breadbox. 

"What do you want?" He asks out loud, and for a moment the man doesn't so much as move, then his hand comes up and switches on the lamp bedside him. 

John almost rolls his eyes at the drama of it all.

The man is tall, auburn haired, and smartly dressed, with both of his hands wrapped around the handle of a rather expensive looking umbrella.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" The man asks and John's eyebrows lift in mild surprise before he moves to the refrigerator to pull out cream, eggs, butter, and fruit. He sets them all down on the counter and grabs a bowl from the cabinet before turning back to his intruder. 

"I'm his friend." John replies truthfully and the man's gives him a falsely serene smile that puts him on edge, which he supposes is its intended purpose. 

John finds a whisk and begins mixing ingredients in a bowl.

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't have friends." The man says in a pleasantly neutral voice, one that fits perfectly with that uncomfortable smile and John allows himself that eyeroll he resisted earlier.

"And yet here I am, friend to Sherlock Holmes. That makes you wrong Mr. Melodrama, you should work on that if you're going to do the whole dark and mysterious bit." John replies hotly.

The man stands and john picks up a wicked looking knife and starts a rough chop on his fruit. Sherlock is sleeping in his home and under no circumstances will he allow this arsehole to hurt him.

The man takes the hint.

"No need to threaten Dr. Watson. I assure you I mean you no harm." He says in that same blandly pleasant tone.

"That's very comforting coming from someone that broke into my home." John retorts and the man doesn't even have the decency to appear chastened.

"Yes well, needs must. I had to meet you for myself. It's not often Sherlock Holmes finds himself quite so enamored. I had to become personally aquatinted with the inspiration behind such a thing, of course." He man says, and his posh, public school accent is what gives him away.

He sounds exactly like Sherlock.

"Let me guess, 'overbearing, extremely meddlesome, very powerful' brother?" He asks, but before the man can respond a dark cool baritone rings out, still rough with sleep.

"Got it in one." Sherlock says as he strides into the room and flops gracelessly onto the sofa.

"You've had your look, you can go now, Mycroft." He snipes, but Mycroft gives an almost tired sigh and sits forward in his chair, more emotion on his face than John has seen since the man got here.

"I had to be sure, little brother." Mycroft responds and a bit of the ire bleeds from Sherlock's expression.

"Yes, I know." He sighs. "I'm _fine_ My. John has been nothing but kind and you've broken into his home and invaded his privacy. You should probably go." He finishes and Mycroft moves to stand but John waves him back down.

"Hey no, he doesn't have to go." He says hurriedly.

"Mycroft, yes?" He asks and Mycroft nods. "Would you like to stay for tea?" He asks.

"I've got an older sister I've been taking care of my entire life. I may not agree with your methods, but believe me I understand the compulsion all too well." He continues with a wry smile. Mycroft gives Sherlock a look to which Sherlock responds with a small smug smile that makes John feel like he's just passed a test he didn't know he was taking. 

Mycroft stands.

"Thank you very much for the invitation Dr. Watson but I must be going." He says as he leans gently on his umbrella.

"Goodbye brother." He says, turning a small smile on Sherlock and gives him a raised eyebrow in return.

"Goodbye Mycroft." He says in a smug sing-song voice and John only barely stifles a giggle. 

Mycroft shakes his head at the both of them and makes his way to the door, but John knows he saw the ghost of a smile on his lips as he left.

"He likes you." Sherlock says, and John goes back to the counter to finish up his breakfast.

"That was liking me?" He asks, one eyebrow raised as he melts butter in a pan. 

"You're not dead or being dragged away to prison right now, so yes. That was liking you." Sherlock says seriously and John has to wrestle down a shudder.

"What does your brother _do_ exactly?" He asks calmly and Sherlock wanders over to see what John is cooking.

"He's well on his way to becoming the British Government." Sherlock says, stealing a strawberry from the bowl and laughing when John swats at his hands and hip bumps him away from the fruit when he reaches for another.

"I'd say another 8 years or so if he keeps up this pace, maybe a little less. He gets faster as he goes." He finishes as he watches John dip large pieces of bread in the egg and milk mixture then drop them into the hot butter.

John flips the toast and looks over at Sherlock.

"Sit down please." He asks with a smile and a wave toward the nearest chair at the island.

Sherlock steps around and has a seat just as John tilts the eggy bread onto a plate and tosses fresh fruit on top, he gives it a light dusting of icing sugar and sets out a bowl of warm fruit syrup, with a large spoon.

"There, now try that." John says, setting a fork down against the edge of Sherlock's plate.

When John turns to put his own plate together Sherlock drizzles the syrup over his food, takes a small bite, and nearly moans when cinnamon and butter and cream and vanilla all explode over his tongue. Sweet berries and handmade simple fruit sauce and John is an _amazing_ cook.

"Why can you cook so well?" Sherlock asks and John turns to him with a wide grin, then brings his plate over from the counter and takes the seat next to him.

"My mother cooked a lot when I was a kid. I spent a lot of time with my mother therefore I cooked a lot." He says with a soft shrug. "I'm glad you like it. I'll cook for you daily if it means you gain a stone or two." He says good-naturedly and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Eating is boring." He says in a very serious voice with a mouth full of breakfast.

"Tell that to your empty plate." John tosses back and Sherlock laughs, open and honest and joyous and John can't help but be captivated by how _beautiful_ he is when he's happy. There aren't too many things he wouldn't do to keep Sherlock smiling just like that.

"Sherlock, will you go to dinner with me tomorrow night? On a proper date?" John asks, and really he didn't mean to but he can't _help_ himself when this beautiful boy is sitting at his table, wearing _his_ clothes, _glowing_ like he has moonlight in his veins.

Sherlock gives John a shy smile and nods his dark head, sleep mussed curls bouncing slightly, and John has to clench his hand to keep from reaching out and gently cupping that sweet face.

"Good. I have reservations at Benares for 8 o'clock. Is that okay for you?" He asks and Sherlock goes a bit pale.

"That sounds wonderful, but..." He trails off and John's eyebrows pinch in the middle, trying to suss out what could be wrong.

"It's just that, well, I don't really have anything to wear for a place like that, I'm sorry. I haven't needed those kinds of clothes in a long while." He finishes, staring down at his hands, fingers twisting in his lap.

John looks at him and his chest _aches_. Sherlock should never be ashamed, he's _perfect_. 

"Sherlock do you work today?" He asks and Sherlock shakes his head in the negative, still refusing to look up into John's eyes.

"Good, go shower and get dressed." He says, and that's enough for Sherlock's head to come up and their gazes to catch and John smiles over at him.

"We're going shopping." He says, and Sherlock makes an odd noise, then opens his mouth to decline but John heads him off.

"No. No arguing, only doing. Your clothes are in the laundry room, end of the hall and to your right. I'd really like for you to come to dinner with me Sherlock and if clothes are all that's standing in the way, that is an issue very easily rectified. Please just let me do this." John asks gently and Sherlock gives in with a nod and a small smile, wondering how John manages to disarm him so easily.

Sherlock makes his way to the laundry where his clothes (pants included) have been washed and are hanging just there on the bar next to the door. His pants have been tucked discreetly into the folds of his trousers, and his socks are in his pockets. 

Military neatness.

John

Sherlock grabs his clothes and makes his way to the bathroom with a flush on his cheeks, wondering what he's gotten himself into.

\---------

Shopping with John Watson is not as bad as he thought it would be. They walked into the small shop and immediately the owner and tailor of the shop began fussing about. John tells the man that Sherlock needs his measurements taken, a suit for tomorrow night with all the trappings. 

The man nods and takes Sherlock behind a curtain where Sherlock strips down so the tailor can do his work, and John leans against the wall opposite them.

He can see Sherlock's bare feet and ankles and just a few inches of the creamy skin of his calves below the end of the curtain and just that has him dropping his head, tearing his eyes away from the sight to maintain his composure. 

He looks back up, unable to keep his eyes from drifting back and a flare of red hot jealousy shoots off in his head when he sees the tailor knelt there before Sherlock. 

Logically he knows that the man must be taking his inseam and the circumference of his ankles but that doesn't stop him from wanting to rip the curtain open and drag Sherlock out of there and back to his flat where the only eyes on him, and the only hands touching him are John's. John shakes his head and gives himself a quick but stern mental scolding.

_He is not yours. Get it together Watson._

The tailor comes from behind the curtain peering down at a notepad, measuring tape looped around his neck, muttering to himself. He walks away and John watches him pick up two pairs of black trousers before walking over to a small table laid out prettily with silk shirts in deep dark jewel toned colors. 

Before he can see which colors the man picks the hooks of the curtain Sherlock's behind rattle, and John looks up to see Sherlock in a long, silken, blood red dressing gown. He's got it belted tightly at his waist, accentuating the dip of his waist and curve of his hips. John can tell he's wearing nothing but the small black pants John washed for him yesterday beneath it and he has to clench his jaw to to keep his mouth from falling open.

He growls low under his breath and has to pass it off as clearing his throat. He'd look away but it's impossible, his eyes are _glued_ to Sherlock, dragging upward so slowly that he sure Sherlock can _feel_ his gaze. 

Sherlock, in a fit of confidence at John's reaction drops his head and peeks coyly at John over dark lashes and through sleek mahogany curls.

"Just testing a hypothesis. Thank you for your participation Dr. Watson." He says breathily and slips gracefully back behind the curtain to await the tailor's return.

He doesn't get to see John's sharklike grin.

 _'Oh Sherlock, of all the games to play with me.'_ He thinks smugly to himself.

The tailor comes back, his arms piled high, and John hears Sherlock immediately veto every single tie he has.

"No ties. I hate them." He hears in that lovely voice, like deep rich chocolate over cobblestones.

Moments later the curtain opens and Sherlock steps out in slim fit black suit trousers and a basic black button down shirt. 

God he's gorgeous. 

He looks up at John who steps closer to see him better.

"Do you like it?" He asks, and just as Sherlock begins to nod, the tailor crosses his arms over his chest.

"No he doesn't. He likes the purple one I brought out but he won't try it because he says it's too much." He says with a huff. "I tried to tell him Dr. Watson, that you would have him in what he wants most but he wouldn't listen." He lilts in a soft Scottish burr. 

John looks back at Sherlock who is glaring at the tailor, face red and blazing hot.

"Sherlock, I wouldn't have brought you here if I couldn-" He stops himself and turns back to the tailor.

"We'll take everything in that fitting room that you know he likes. Also, he'll need suits. He'll need shoes, delicates, and plenty of cuff links. Send a few ties, he may hate them but he should have the choice to wear them if he wants which means he'll need tie clips. Jumpers, in only the _best_ materials. Jeans, scarves, jackets, pyjamas, dressing gowns, t shirts, gloves and see if you can't get a coat in here that's worthy of both him and a London winter." He finishes. 

The tailor smirks over his notepad at Sherlock, pen scratching away as he takes it all down. Sherlock, who is staring at John like he's lost his entire mind.

"There is _no_ way that I can accept-" 

"You said you would let me do this for you Sherlock." He says with a smile, and Sherlock marvels that it's that simple for him. That a word given means a deed done and nothing else need be said. 

He wonders if John Watson knows that he's perfect.

Sherlock can't help that he smiles back him. He challenges any human being to see John Watson smile and not return it. It cannot be done.

"I didn't know you were going to buy the whole _store_." Sherlock murmurs, but John just shrugs.

"I didn't. I only bought the things that fit you. Besides, you never qualified how much I was allowed to spend." He says as if he's already prepared with perfect counterpoint to every protestation Sherlock may come up with.

"I don-" Sherlock starts to rebut but John stops him again.

"Why don't you show me this purple shirt you love so much?" He asks gently, and Sherlock flushes, biting at his lip and trying to stop the smile that's spreading over his lips.

"Go on." John says softly, and Sherlock goes back into the fitting room to try on the shirt. A few minutes later Sherlock comes back out in a deep purple silk shirt. It needs to be taken in just a bit, better to show the gorgeous shape of him, but the color is _stunning_. 

The black shirt made him look like art. A marble statue carved by a master somehow come to life. The red dressing gown had made him look like sin. Like a virgin offering to some pagan god demanding only the most magnificent of sacrifices.

But this? This makes him look like _Sherlock_. Like a dark angel with the top two buttons undone showing off the deep well of the hollow of this throat, and the sleeves folded to just below his elbows since he doesn't have cuff links at the moment.

John's fingers _itch_ to touch him and he folds his arms behind his back to quell the urge.

"Beautiful." John whispers and Sherlock grins at him, bright and pure and _happy_ and John can't _breathe_ for how perfect that smile is.

"Go and get dressed, then we'll go and have some lunch yeah?" John asks, his voice a low rasp, and Sherlock nods, and slips back behind the curtain.

He comes out a few minutes later in his own clothes, and walks over to John who gestures him into the chair he himself had been to keyed up to sit in.

The tailor comes out from the shadows he had so inconspicuously melted into when the moment seemed to become just a little too personal for company, and John takes out his credit card and hands it to him. He hopes the man understands, he's not trying to be rude or high handed it's just best that Sherlock doesn't actually _see_ what this comes out to. He wants the soft smile on Sherlock's face to last for as long as it possibly can.

The man is a consummate professional who gives John a small grin and nod once he's behind Sherlock just to signal that he understands, and then moves into the front of the store with the register.

A few moments later he brings that thick black notebook containing a receipt for John to sign, and a small card for special instructions on which John asks for a rush on the purple shirt and black trousers. 6:30 tomorrow night at the latest.

Once the signature is obtained the tailor turns to Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, I'll be needing your address so I can get everything sent to you once it's all ready." He says, and Sherlock's eyes flick up at John for a quick moment, then he takes a breath and turns back to the tailor.

"Baker Homes Condominiums.  
Flat 221b." He says softly, and a smile like the sun spreads across John's face.

Because that's John's address.

And apparently now it's Sherlock's address too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we are! 
> 
> I absolutely _adored_ writing this chapter! I will not apologize for the shameless fluff because I just am not sorry, lol. 
> 
> I do have to say that I am just _so_ amazingly flattered and flabbergasted at the response to this fic! Honestly it means _so_ much more than I know how to say. It is absolutely unquantifiable! Thank you all so so much! See you in two Wednesdays! :)


	7. Dinner? Starving.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys finally go on their date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I know I'm a day behind. There was a death in the family and it put me a little off schedule, so I'm sorry, and I hope you guys can understand.
> 
> As always, lots of love to [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for her amazingness as both a beta and a friend. Thank you for everything darling, I couldn't do this without you.
> 
> All mistakes are my own, and you guys know by now that I use too many italics.
> 
> Enjoy!

The next morning Sherlock wakes to the muted glow of shaded sunshine. He lies in bed remembering the night before, recalling John and himself sat on the sofa talking so long into the night their tea had gone cold and their biscuits stale and uneaten. 

He smiles softly and turns to look at the clock, groaning when he realizes he never washed his clothes and now he'll have to go all the way back to his own flat for clean clothes before he goes to work which means he has to wake up now if he's going to be on time. 

Grumbling annoyedly he throws the deep blue silk dressing gown purchased in yesterday's trip to the shop on over his pyjamas made of cotton so soft he barely notices them on his skin. He pulls the door open and nearly bumps into John who is making his way to the kitchen.

"Good morning Sleeping Beauty." John says, stopping and turning toward Sherlock with a smile. He's already dressed and ready for the day. Sherlock supposes it must be a military trait as he yawns, bringing up one hand to cover his mouth and then dragging it through his curls to push them out of his eyes.

"Morning." Sherlock mumbles around another yawn.

"Your clothes are washed and hanging in the laundry room, that way you don't have to go all the way back to get ready for work." John explains and Sherlock grins over at him in unabashed gratitude.

"Thank you John." Sherlock says, as he stifles yet another yawn before lifting his arms above his head in a long, sinuous stretch.  
The cool blue silk of the dressing gown ripples around him and his t shirt pulls up showing off a large strip of his flat belly and John can't help but marvel at the creamy perfection of the bare skin before him. Sherlock relaxes from his stretch and looks back over at John who clears his throat gently and licks his lips trying to assuage the sudden dryness of his mouth.

"Why don't you go get another hour or so of sleep and I'll make you breakfast when you wake?" He asks and Sherlock nods gratefully before ambling back into his room, shedding his dress gown, and slipping back into the thick, comfortably heavy blankets with a happy sigh.

John watches from the doorway, smiling when Sherlock tugs the duvet up so high that all he can see of him is that mop of mahogany curls like a dark stain against the off white sheets. Grinning and shaking his head indulgently he pulls the door shut and makes his way to the kitchen for his morning tea.

**********

A little over an hour later Sherlock emerges from his bedroom all sleep mussed curls, hooded eyes, and slow steps. He slumps into one of the chairs at the island and drops his head on the counter, lifting it only slightly to glare at John when he laughs.

"Not a morning person eh?" John asks in a bright tone, and Sherlock groans. 

"How can you be this happy? It's half six in the morning, no one should be happy at this hour." He gripes, as John stirs buttermilk into a concoction of what can only be the dry ingredients for pancakes.

"Military. I sleep easy and hard, and I wake at the ready." He answers with a smile before cracking two eggs into his bowl and whisking the mixture quickly.

"Pancakes alright?" John asks, and Sherlock lifts his head, nodding his affirmation, but John sees the small furrow between his brows and can't help but to reach over and smooth that tiny crease with his thumb, causing a soft pink flush to steal over Sherlock's face.

"If you don't like pancakes Sherlock, we can have something else. It's really not a problem." John assures him but Sherlock shakes his head, sleep wild hair bouncing about his ears.

"No, I love pancakes actually. I just..." He trails off, and John sets a pan on the stove before turning back to Sherlock and giving him an encouraging smile.

"You just?" John prompts and Sherlock ducks his head.

"Ilikethemwithchocolatechips." He mumbles and John gives him a confused look, clearly unable to decipher the jumbled mess of words.

Sherlock sighs.

"I like them with chocolate." He says to the counter and John tucks one knuckle under his chin and lifts until he can catch Sherlock's gaze.

"What exactly is so embarrassing about liking chocolate in your pancakes that you're speaking to the table instead of me?" He asks, and Sherlock huffs.

"Most people would find it _ridiculous_ that someone my age still eats chocolate in their breakfast." He mumbles and John shakes his head and smiles again.

"Sherlock, most people are idiots." He says and Sherlock's eyes snap up to him, and a smile spreads across his perfect face.

"You may have anything you like, least of all chocolate in your pancakes." He says, turning to the refrigerator to pull out the chocolate he keeps on hand for cookies and muffins. "It's really nothing at all Sherlock, please don't ever be embarrassed to ask me for what you want. I would never humiliate you for the things you like." He says sincerely as he spoons a bit of the batter into a separate bowl and folds a few handfuls of the sweets into it.

"Okay?" He queries, and Sherlock nods with a smile. 

"Alright."

A few moments later two fluffy, golden, chocolate chip pancakes and two strips of bacon are set on a plate before him, and just after a mug of steaming hot, _wonderfully_ aromatic coffee to which he watches John add a exactly two sugars.

He smiles and lifts the mug to his lips, nearly groaning at how good it is. Italian roast, he can tell. And _perfect_.

"You remember how I take my coffee?" He asks in a soft tone and John smiles at him as he sets his own plate down and sits down beside him.

"Yes of course I do. You let me take you out for coffee and tore apart the barista for being an arse, how could I forget anything at all about that day?" He asks with a smile and Sherlock laughs, drizzling _real_ maple syrup over his pancakes and cutting into his food with the side of his fork.

"I suppose you couldn't." He says, taking a small bite and only just keeping a low moan behind his lips at the pillowy mounds of vanilla and chocolate flavored deliciousness.

"You're going to make me fat." He declares, and John smiles.

"No, I'm going to make you _healthy_. You don't take in half as many calories as you should for someone as active as you are, but no worries. We'll get another couple stone on you yet." John says with a wink, forking up a bite of his own food.

They spend the next minutes eating in amicable silence, enjoying their breakfast and the sights of the city waking as they peer across the living room and out of the windows.

When Sherlock finishes he picks up his mug and sips, savoring the hot brew. He jerks his chin slightly toward the windows with one brow raised, a silent question to which John nods his approval 

"You live here Sherlock, you don't need my permission." He says, so with a soft smile Sherlock lifts his cup and goes to watch the city he loves and enjoy his morning coffee.

When he finishes he turns to John who is still sat at the island. Their eyes catch and Sherlock realizes that John has been watching him as he watched London and he drops his head to hide the flush that washes over his cheeks.

He moves back over to the island to pick up his plate and fork and then around the other side to load them into the dishwasher. His eyes catch the clock on the microwave and he turns back to John.

"I should get showered. Work in an hour." He says, and John nods.

"You know where everything is. I've got to be there an hour after you, so I'll stop by the lab around lunch and we can eat together? If you don't mind." He adds quickly.

Sherlock smiles.

"As a general rule I don't eat lunch," He answers, hating the small fall of John's expression.

"but I think I might like to with you." He finishes, and John smiles that bright beaming smile of his, and Sherlock can't help but be entranced. He reaches out and runs a finger over the crinkles at the corner John's eye like he's wanted to do since the day he first met him.

John's eyes flutter closed and he only just leans into the touch, as if he's afraid Sherlock will pull his hand away if the contact becomes too much.

Sherlock, unable to draw himself away, spreads his palm open and cups the side of John's face gently in his hand, relishing the warmth of his skin and almost shocked by the sweet burn of lust low in his belly. 

When he finally moves to pull away John grabs hold of his hand, and slowly, deliberately brings Sherlock's hand to his mouth, where he brushes a soft kiss to the tender skin at the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

"Go." He says, the word rumbles up out of his chest and Sherlock watches him take a deep steadying breath before looking back up at him, barely banked fire gleaming up at him from those perfect midnight blue eyes.

"Go on and get ready. I'll call you a cab in a bit." 

**********

Midday arrives and John grabs the lunch bag he packed and goes off in search of Sherlock. 

He makes his way to the lab, opens the door, and there he is with those long elegant hands encased in tight fitting latex and the cool galaxies of his eyes hidden behind goggles as he drips a drop of some clear liquid into a test tube full of golden liquid that goes blue when they meet. He watches Sherlock scribble something down in his notes and then turn to John, stripping off his gloves and goggles and smiling over at him.

"Lunchtime already?" He asks, looking down at the bag in Sherlock's hand.

"Yep, and I made it myself." John replies, only a little bit smug when Sherlock's eyes light up at the prospect of more his cooking. 

"Come on then, wash your hands and we'll go up to your favorite staff lounge." He says, and Sherlock complies, removing his lab coat and giving his hands a good scrubbing before walking over to John.

A quick ride on a lift and soon enough they make it to the staff lounge and are sitting, chatting, and eating John's homemade roast beef sandwiches when the door opens unexpectedly. Sherlock turns to snarl at whoever deigns to interrupt their time together, but his face relaxes into a small smile when he sees who's at the door.

"Molly." He says happily. "Come in, come in. I'd like you to meet someone." Sherlock says excitedly, turning back to John who is smiling at him expectantly.

"This is Captain John Watson, M.D. He's the lead trauma surgeon here" He says, and John's brow furrows.

"John, this is Specialist Registrar and Forensic Pathologist Molly Hooper, she works here in the morgue and is one of the most kind, trustworthy people you'll ever meet." He says, smiling over at her.

"Before you ask, yes. John and I are dating." Sherlock says casually, but the faint blush that steals over his neck betrays him. Molly steps forward and places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, then turns to hold the other out to John in greeting.

"Very nice to meet you Dr. Watson," she says sweetly, then leans in a bit and tugs John forward.

"Be good to him, or I'll make sure you end up on a slab in my morgue." She says brightly and John's eyes go huge and wide as dinner plates even as Sherlock stifles a laugh behind his hand.

"Come see me tomorrow Sherlock, and I'll have something for you to play with." She says, rolling her eyes with an indulgent smile when Sherlock grins happily and nods his head vigorously.

"Again, very nice to meet you Dr. Watson." She offers, and John smiles, standing and coming around the table and hold out his hand.

"And you as well," he replies. "But please, just call me John. I'm _really_ not one for formalities. Besides, anyone as protective of Sherlock as you are is someone i'd like to be on good terms with. His safety is my biggest concern, especially since he doesn't seem to have any self preservation instincts of his own." He says, shooting Sherlock a half-hearted glare.

"Oh god, none at all. Sherlock would run bare arsed into a fire if he thought an interesting murder was on the other end of it." Molly agrees with a huff as John nods.

"Just takes off after _murderers_ all on his lonesome like he thinks his head is _bulletproof_." John gripes and Molly nods with a sigh.

"You haven't seen anything yet. Wait until he find something that really _grabs_ him. There's absolutely no stopping him. His brother had taken to hiring bodyguards at one point, but Sherlock always slips them." Molly explains, and Sherlock grimaces, trying to decide if he wants to intervene, or if letting them bond over this to relieve any tension between his best friend and his hopefully soon to be boyfriend is worth the telling off he's likely to get if they work themselves up over it.

"Well he won't slip me, and I'll be there with him on _every_ case he takes." John says in a low tone, catching Sherlock's gaze and giving him his most serious Captain Watson glare. 

"Nothing will happen to him, so long as I'm around. On that you have my word." He says in a firm steady voice, arms folded over his chest as he looks directly into Sherlock's eyes. 

Sherlock drops his head and peeks up at him over his dark lashes, very sufficiently chastened.

Molly beams at John.

"Oh, Sherlock. Finally." She says with a happy smile, then presses her hand to John's shoulder.

"Please look after him." She says quietly, and John nods.

"I gave you my word." He says, and Molly grins even harder.

"Yes, you did. Well, this has been wonderful but I've got to get to get downstairs. I do hope to see you around more often John." She says.

"Bye Sher, remember, tomorrow in the morgue." She calls, and turns to leave the room.

John looks down at Sherlock and lifts and eyebrow at him in question.

"She likes weird people and dead things." He explains.

"I'm weird and like dead things. We clicked." He finishes with a shrug and John smiles.

"Good. I'm glad you have at least one friend here." John replies, sitting down and tossing the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth.

Sherlock wipes his mouth primly while John marvels at the fact that somehow this curly haired genius has managed to eat an entire sandwich without a single misplaced crumb _anywhere_. 

John looks down at his watch and sighs.

"I should be getting back." He says as he balls up the wax paper and tosses it into the bin.

"I'll see you at home after work?" He asks, and Sherlock nods, clearing his space and moving to stand as well. He may as well get back to work. Too much inactivity, and the waiting will drive him insane.

"Yes, I get off before you, but I'll meet you back at the flat." He answers, and John smiles, reaching out for Sherlock's hand and pressing a gentle kiss to the backs of his fingers.

"Then I'll see you in a few hours beautiful." John murmurs against his skin, and then he executes a perfect military turn, glances back at Sherlock, tosses him a wink, and closes the door gently behind him.

Sherlock flops back down in his chair and knocks his head against the table with a loud thud.

If John Watson doesn't give him a _real_ kiss sometime _very_ soon, Sherlock is going to have to take matters into his own hands.

**********

Sherlock was wrong. 

It's not something he admits to often(ever), but this time he'll admit to himself that he was absolutely _wrong_.

Working is not helping him wait. His mind refuses to get lost in the equations and reactions the way it usually does because he can't keep his eyes off the clock. He could _swear_ that this last hour of work has somehow managed to drag itself on for an extra two hours at _least_.

He _knows_ this last half hour should be nothing, but all he wants to do is get back and get dressed and finally _finally_ have a date with John where there won't be any interruptions, and the staff is well trained enough not to hit on their patrons.

Really, they could get a Chinese take out and sit on the couch all night, he just _misses_ him. Which is absurd, he knows. He just saw the man not a few hours ago, and they _live together_ now, he thinks giddily, yet somehow he still can't think of anything or anyone but John Watson.

John is going to drive him slowly insane. He can see that now, even if it is already too late. 

He sighs, and strips off his gloves, glad that a bad day for him is a great day for anyone else, so even in his distraction he's gotten enough done that no one can say anything to him. Just as he's binning the paper towels he used to dry his hands, his phone chimes.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out, a grin spreading across his face when he sees John's name on his screen.

> _This day is dragging its arse longer than any other day I can remember. And I was in a war, which is the very definition of hurry up and wait._

Sherlock lets out a relived sigh, at least he's not alone is his irritation.

> _Good, that's means it's not just me. The last hour has taken at least three hours to pass. It got to the point that I honestly believed the clock in the lab was broken. -SH_

He replies, smiling when that tiny grey ellipsis shows him that John is already replying.

> _Is it insane to say that I miss you when I just saw you a few hours ago and I'll see you again in only a few hours more? God Sherlock what are you doing to me?_

Is the next message to come through, and Sherlock bites at his lower lip, clutching his phone tightly in his hands, and only just managing to keep from pressing it to his chest like a love drunk child.

Although really, who could blame him?

He throws a quick glance around him, then shakes his head at himself because he already _knows_ that he's alone, then taps the buttons on his phone to capture a screenshot of the text that he then emails to himself, because his phone has a tendency to meet with water a lot, and this isn't something he ever wants to risk losing. Because John Watson misses him _back_.

He covers his mouth with his hands and absolutely _refuses_ to allow the shrill sound clawing at his chest to spill from his mouth. 

He takes a few deep breaths and looks over at the clock, rolling his eyes when he sees that he only has ten minutes left. Because of course _now_ the time would choose to fly by. Sherlock thinks on how he should respond, then slowly begins tapping at the keys.

> _Yes, but whoever said insane was a bad thing? Insane is good. Insane isn't boring. Insanity is _interesting_ , which is much more than can be said for most things. -SH_

He presses send and takes off his lab coat, hanging it from the rack and smoothing his cuffs as he makes his way to the door. Just before he opens it, he gets another text from John.

> _I don't think I've known anyone else in my entire life that has ever before used so many words to say 'I miss you too'._

It reads, and Sherlock taps out a quick response before he leaves the lab with a soft smile.

A few floors below, John is elbow deep in paperwork watching the clock as the last hour of his day crawls by when he gets one last text from Sherlock before the young man leaves for the day.

> _And you never will again. I'll see you soon John. -SH_

********

Sherlock gets all the way back to the flat before he realizes he doesn't have a key. Just as he's making his way across the lobby of the building, the doorman comes round from the desk with a small white envelope in his hand that he wordlessly passes to Sherlock. On it, in John's scrawling hand is his name, and inside, is very clearly a key. He inclines his head slightly in thanks, gets the lift the the top floor, and makes his way inside the flat and immediately he knows something's amiss. 

He walks to his room and does a quick scan, before taking a deep breath in and letting it out so he doesn't cry out with unfettered joy. Somehow, apparently, John has found the time to send for his things. And granted, there's not much that was at his flat that John doesn't already have a better version of, but some things simply can't be replaced. Things like his journals and his microscope, but most importantly _his violin_. He's only been without it for two nights and already he's missed it like a limb.

He pops open the clasps on the case and looks down at the one thing in his life that has never failed him, and never let him down. He brushes his fingers gently across the body and up over the strings, wondering idly if he should tell John that his sweet gesture has been usurped by Mycroft.

No one John hired would have had his clothes steam pressed before they hung them, and they certainly wouldn't have had the knowledge to loosen his bowstring before stowing it away in the violin case. He decides against it. There's no reason to take this from John, besides, he knows that Mycroft knows that he knows what's transpired, and that is enough for the both of them. 

Sherlock pulls out his phone to send yet another text.

> _Thank you. -SH_

The answer is immediate.

> _You are most welcome, little brother. Tell John that I shall be taking him up on that offer for tea someday soon. -MH ___

Sherlock smiles and rolls his eyes, then lifts his violin from its case and begins tuning it.

John he will thank in person.

At just a few minutes before 6 o'clock Sherlock hears a key scraping in the lock, so he places his newly tuned violin back in its case, and goes into the living room to greet him.

John walks in, sets down his briefcase and hangs his coat, then looks up and his whole face brightens when he sees that Sherlock is in the room.

"Hello there, did you have a good day?" He asks, and Sherlock frowns.

"No. I spent every minute after lunch watching the clock and I'm almost positive that you're driving me slowly insane. Watching those seconds tick by was something akin to Chinese water torture." He takes a breath and frowns again. "I've always hated that it's called _Chinese_ water torture. It's the definition of a misnomer. It was actually first documented in the late 1400's by an Italian man by the name of Hippolytus de Marsiliis who was also the first man to archive sleep deprivation as a form of torture. He wasn't a very nice man, no. But he was _quite_ interesting." He finishes, watching the small soft smile on John's face.

"Why are you smiling like that?" He asks, and John steps further into the flat, making his way to the loo to wash his hands while Sherlock follow closely behind him.

"Because coming home to you is even more wonderful than I'd imagined." John explains with that same easy smile, but before Sherlock can respond, a knock on the door sends them both back into the living room. John pulls the door open and smiles to see a young man on the other side. He's just a bit younger than Sherlock and he has short, sandy brown hair, bright blue eyes, and a sweet smile.

"Callum! How are you?" John asks jovially, relieving him of two large garment bags, a shoe box, and a small jewelers bag.

"Doing pretty well Cap!" Callum responds, holding out a hand to shake and then reaching in his hand to produce a sheet of folded paper. Before it's even halfway open Sherlock knows what it is, and is wondering why this man is showing John his report card.

John glances over it, and Sherlock can see that he's getting pretty good grades. All A's and one B, and Sherlock thinks smugly that he had gotten perfect grades in uni without even trying while this guy was probably still struggling through secondary school.

John however, smiles at him proudly, pulls out his wallet, fishes out 10 crisp £20 notes, and passes them over to Callum.

"Get that B up, and it'll be more next time." He says with a smile and Callum throws his arms around John with a loud 'whoop'.

Sherlock's mind immediately starts racing, trying to pin down their history together but he doesn't have enough _data_ , and try as he might not to theorize without the facts, he can't help but to jump to rapid fire conclusions involving this beautiful boy with the kind eyes and happy smile and he wonders what he ever thought he had to offer someone like John who could have _anyone_ he wanted. Sherlock turns to walk away, but a hand reaches out and takes his wrist in a firm but gentle grip, and holds him steady in place. 

Sherlock breathes out slowly and stares straight ahead, refusing to allow the pinpricks behind his eyes to become tears on his face. There's no reason to cry, John was never truly his anyway. 

John claps his hand to Callum's shoulder.

"Callum, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Callum. He works at the shop we went to yesterday, and he's in school at Bart's for pediatrics." John explains, and Sherlock offer his hand, as is polite, but all he wants it to get to his room so he can cry alone and in peace.

"Hello Callum, pleasure to meet you." He says in a low, soft tone. Making a conscious effort not to sound angry or acerbic.

Callum nods him a greeting as they shake hands.

"Nice to meet you as well! You must be a pretty good guy to be hanging around with Cap here." Callum says enthusiastically.

"Well, I've got to head back, but it was great to see you Cap, and wonderful to meet you Sherlock. See you next time!" He calls out, as he makes his way down the hall and to the lift. 

John shuts the door and Sherlock turns away, and makes a beeline for his bedroom, but John stops him with a gentle hand to his upper arm.

"Oh Sherlock, no. Come sit and let me explain." He says quietly, laying the garment bags flat on the table and pulling Sherlock over to the sofa.

"When I shopped there for the first time Callum was there. He saw my military I.D. in my wallet when I went to pay for my things and he told me all about his plans to enlist to pay for college." He says, trying to catch Sherlock's gaze who is deliberately avoiding his eyes. "I stopped him because I knew immediately that he wasn't meant for war. The happiness and innocence he carries would be snuffed out, and I couldn't let that happen. I helped him apply for a scholarship and he doesn't know it, but his parents and I have a deal that I pay for anything else he needs so long as they never let slip that I'm the one paying for it. Whenever I order anything from the shop he brings my order and a copy of his report card and I give him spending money in exchange for good grades, but that's all. There has never been, and will never be anything between Callum and I. If there had, I would have requested someone else drop off your order. I would never have allowed him here with you if we had a past Sherlock, I wouldn't do that." He finishes, and Sherlock nods, feeling both ridiculously relieved and a little bit silly, because _of course_ John wouldn't do that to him.

John Watson wouldn't do that to _anyone_.

A small smile spreads over Sherlock's lips as the ache that had grown in his chest dissipates, and John smiles back at him.

"There's that smile." He says, reaching up to tuck a wayward curl behind Sherlock's ear.

"There now, you take these," He says, standing and passing Sherlock one of the garment bags and and the shoebox. "and go get showered and dressed. The car will be here at 7:30 so we don't have much time." 

Sherlock nods, smiles, and then on an impulse he leans in and brushes a quick kiss to John's jaw before slipping down the hall and shutting himself quietly in the bathroom.

Nearly an hour later Sherlock comes out dressed and ready in a perfectly tailored, black slim fit suit, black leather shoes, and the purple shirt he's been _dying_ to get into.

He walks down the hall, fiddling with his cuff link, trying to get it to sit correctly, but when he looks up, everything stops.

There is John, in a black shirt, light grey trousers, and a dark grey jacket. A red and brown patterned scarf tossed artfully about his neck, his sun burnished blond hair combed to perfection.

He looks _amazing_ and his eyes are twinkling at Sherlock like he _knows_ it.

He strides across the room with sultry, gliding movements, stopping before Sherlock and touching his hand gently so it falls away from the cuff link he had been adjusting.

He gives Sherlock a thorough once over, and then smiles up at him and sighs.

"Absolutely lovely." He says quietly, and Sherlock gives him a bashful smile, even as he feels the blush that colors his cheeks and stains his neck.

"Thank you." He replies, eyeing John appreciatively. "You're not so bad yourself." He continues, eyes gleaming when John drops his head and peeks up at him, playing at coy.

"The car's waiting downstairs, but before we go..." John trails off, and he reaches into the inside coat pocket of his jacket, and pulls out a small black box.

For half a second, Sherlock panics, confused that after just a couple weeks, John would propose marriage, but then his mind takes in the size and shape of the box, and his shoulders relax.

John opens it to reveal a pair of sparklingly clear purple garnet cuff links set into white gold.

Sherlock stares down at them, only just keeping his mouth from falling open. 

Purple garnets are rare and they are _not_ cheap.

"Why?" Sherlock asks in a low voice and John shrugs.

"Beautiful jewels for beautiful you. Nothing more or less." He responds simply, reaching out to tug Sherlock's arm up.

"May I?" He asks, and Sherlock hesitates for just a moment before nodding his assent. John smiles and with quick and efficient fingers, removes the pair that came in the bag with his suit, and replaces them with the new pair, his fingers brushing sweetly over the sensitive skin at his wrists

"There." He says as he finishes. "Ready to go?" He asks, and Sherlock nods again, as they walk to the door together.

Just before they leave, Sherlock stops to grab his coat and John gasps.

"Oh! How could I forget?" He mutters to himself.

"Put that back," he says, gesturing toward Sherlock's coat. "And wait right here." He finishes, hurrying off to his room and coming back with the second garment bag, Sherlock had assumed was just something John had gotten for himself.

He hangs the bag from the top of the refrigerator and pulls down the zip, and there, inside that simple black bag, is the most gorgeous coat Sherlock has ever laid his eyes on.

"I picked it out myself this morning, I thought it would look amazing on you." John explains.

"Do you like it?" He asks hesitantly, and Sherlock huffs out a laugh, walking over to it and stroking a hand down the dark thick fabric. He traces a hand over the dark red stitching around the top buttonhole and gasps when he realizes he's looking at a Belstaff.

"Do I like it?" He asks in an awed tone. "John I love it. This is a Belstaff." He says, glancing over at John who's smiling happily at the well reception of his gift.

"Yes it is. Now let's get it on you and hurry to the car or we'll be late for our reservations." John replies, pulling the coat from the bag and holding it out for Sherlock to slip his arms in.

Sherlock turns to John, and the heavy fabrics swings around his knees dramatically, making Sherlock almost giddy with glee. He's going to look _splendid_ running around London's corners in this coat.

" _Thank you_ , John." Sherlock whispers out as he knots a dark blue cashmere scarf around his neck, and then he reaches down and threads his fingers together with John's, and hand in hand, they make their way to the car waiting downstairs.

*********

After arriving at the restaurant and being seated, Sherlock glances around and realizes that they're sat at the chef's table. He blinks over at John.

"How did you get a reservation here as quickly as you did?" He asks across the table, but in lieu of an answer John gives him an enigmatic smile.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow in challenge, then sits forward and plants his elbows on the table, steepling his hands beneath his chin and pinning John in place with the force of his gaze.

"You got the chef's table at a Michelin star restaurant in less than 48 hours. You can tell me why, or I'll tell _you_ why." He says, eyes narrowing in concentration, flickering this way and that as he takes in each different data point, then puts them in a neat line in his head, changing up the order until they make sense.

"Well now I HAVE to know whether or not you could figure it out. So go on, let's have it." John encourages and Sherlock smiles.

"Well, it's obviously a tie to the chef, for you to have gotten this table on such short notice." He says, and John sits back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.

_Subconscious defensive posture._

Sherlock smirks and continues.

"The staff clearly know you. Yes, they're much too professional to stop and speak, but there were plenty of nods and smiles in your general direction as we came in. So this isn't the first time you've been here." He continues, his smirk softening into a smile once again at John's rapt expression.

"The Army never sent you to India so it's nothing to do with your military service. Something with your medical work then." He goes on, gaining steam as he closes in on an answer.

"So, what doctor's deed makes a chef clear his best table at a moment's notice..." He trails off.

"Ah. A life saved." He says, tilting his head as if to see John from a different angle.

"But who?" He asks aloud, and is unsurprised when John doesn't answer, but instead inclines his head toward Sherlock.

"Not himself, his wife, or his children, that would have been all over the news, Atul Kochhar is much too well known in the UK. Not his mother or father, they're both in India. Oh!" He gasps, and eyes that had drifted slightly out of focus suddenly snap back into intense clarity, lighting up with understanding.

"His brother." Sherlock says quietly, and John nods his head with an awed smile on his lips.

"Sherlock, you're magic." He breathes, and Sherlock blushes, cheeks blazing red.

"No. Logic. Magic doesn't exist and if it did, I can assure you I'm the last human it would want to attach itself to." He snarks, and John reaches over the table and threads his fingers through Sherlock's, his smile soft and warm.

"To me, you're magic." He says simply and Sherlock draws the corner of his lip into his mouth, nibbling gently. Just as he opens his mouth to respond, their first course is served to the table and John releases his hand to make room for the plates.

Sherlock looks down at the dishes being set upon on the table and looks up at John in confusion.

"Tasting menu." John explains and Sherlock nods his understanding.

"I figured with you being a finicky eater, this way you're bound to find something you like." John explains and Sherlock smiles at the consideration. At how good John is at looking after him.

"It looks wonderful." He says, and truthfully it does. He spears a scallop on his fork and brings it to his mouth.

It's _amazing_.

"Perfectly cooked." Sherlock offers, and John smiles.

"Atul is an amazing chef, and he will have cooked all our food personally tonight." John says, choosing a scallop of his own.

"Did all of your things survive the movers unscathed?" He asks, and Sherlock nods. He takes a sip of wine and refuses to be shocked by how well it pairs with the food.

"Yes." He says as he decides which prawn he wants.

"Everything was very clearly handled with the utmost care." He expounds, and John smiles.

"Thank you. Very much. It makes it so much easier to have all of my things on hand. My violin especially, I was beginning to miss it like I'd miss my right hand." He says quietly.

"I'd love to hear you play sometime, if you do that sort of thing." John says in a low voice, and Sherlock thinks about how private he's always been about his playing. How as a general rule, he tends to use it to make discordant sounds and chaotic noises to annoy when there's anyone around that could hear him. He thinks of his perfectly tuned instrument lying sweet and docile in its case, just waiting for his fingers and bow to bring it to life once again.

"I haven't played for anyone since I stopped needing lessons." He says, realizing the truthfulness of his statement.

John nods and sips his wine.

"I understand, it's a very personal thing for you. No need to explain or feel pressured." John comments easily, and Sherlock marvels at his easy tone. He showers Sherlock with everything he could ever want, and won't even ask for a song in return.

"I'd like to play for you, when we get back." Sherlock says softly, and John frowns a bit.

"Sherlock you don't have to. Really you don't if it makes you uncomfortable." He explains and Sherlock shakes his head.

"I said _'I'd like_ to play for you', which means I'd enjoy it. I don't do many things I don't want to do, on that you can be sure." He declares, and John laughs.

"No, I can't imagine you do." He says in a low tone.

"If you're sure, I'd love to hear you." John says and Sherlock nods. 

"When we get home." He promises as he brings a forkful of broccoli couscous to his lips.

He looks up to find John watching him, the fingers of one hand curled around his wineglass, and his eyes gleaming in the low lights.

"You really are unfathomably beautiful." He says, apropos of nothing, and Sherlock can help the gentle smile that overtakes his face.

"You cut a rather dashing figure yourself John." He responds, and John beams back at him, the both of them, grinning at each other over the table like besotted fools.

"Thank you." John says quietly, and Sherlock drops his head, but John reaches over and tucks a finger beneath his chin, lifting it back up.

"Keep your head high little prince. You bow to no one." He explains, and this time when Sherlock blushes, he keeps his chin level with the floor, and smiles right into John eyes.

The dinner passes with easy, comfortable conversation while they are plied with great food and perfect wine pairings, and Sherlock can't say he's ever had a better time than he's had on this night, smiling and laughing and eating and drinking and bantering back and forth with John Watson.

*********

They get their same black town car back to the flat, chatting and laughing, slightly tipsy and enjoying themselves immensely. They get the lift up, and walk to the door, fingers and shoulders brushing as they move.

They get inside and John turns to Sherlock.

"Thank you for coming out with me tonight. I had an amazing time with you." He says, and Sherlock laughs.

"You stole my line." He chides jokingly around a chuckle.

"But I did have the _best_ time tonight. I truly can't remember ever having a better night out." He says happily, lips relaxed into a sweet smile.

"Then my work here is done." John says with a smile. He moves to make his way to his room, but Sherlock stops him.

"I'd still like to play for you, if you're still interested?" He asks, and John nods excitedly.

"I didn't want to bother you, but I'd love that Sherlock. How about we both go get on our pajamas, you grab your violin, and we'll meet back here?" He asks, and Sherlock nods.

"Sounds good." He replies with twinkling eyes. 

Minutes later, they're back in the sitting room, their only source of light are the stray moonbeams that manage to pierce the clouds, and the glowing city beneath them.

Sherlock stands before the windows facing John, brings his violin to his neck, and begins to [play](http://youtu.be/sgcR183f8gA).

John watches him from his seat, completely entranced. The music is beautiful. Simultaneously sweet and intense, romantic and painful. It tells a story in a way he never even knew was possible.

He watches Sherlock's body sway, the dark purple silk of his dressing gown fluttering around his body as he loses himself in his music. He watches the moonlight beam down upon him, setting his hair to gleaming and his skin to glowing and he almost can't _stand_ how gorgeous he is.

He thinks about the fact that Sherlock hasn't played for anyone this way since he was a child, and feels ridiculously grateful, a little bit sad that the world has missed out on such a gift, and ludicrously selfish in the way he wants to hoard Sherlock all to himself.

The final strains of the music swell and die, and a gentle hush falls over the room as Sherlock's eyes open and he comes back to himself from whatever place he goes to when he plays.

John would clap, but he doesn't want to break the mood, so instead he stands, and walks over to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, that was the most _amazing_ thing I've ever experienced. You have, an _unparalleled_ gift." He says in a hushed tone.

Tomorrow he will ask for the name of the piece and it's composer, but for now he is as content as he's ever been before.

Sherlock leans in a bit, and John places a soft kiss on his forehead.

Sherlock shakes his head, leans over to place his violin and now on a chair, then turns back to John.

"Kiss me John." He says, and John hesitates.

"Make this the perfect night, and kiss me?" Sherlock asks, and John smiles, reaches up to cup his face in both hands, and brings his head down to touch their lips together.

He expected it to be a soft chaste kiss, but he couldn't have possibly planned for the rush of fire in his veins the moment his lips touched Sherlock's.

He twines his fingers through Sherlock hair, and presses their mouths together, reveling in the plush softness of Sherlock's lips against his. In his wildest _dreams_ he could never have imagined the sparkling intensity of kissing Sherlock. Of tasting those lips that have taken over his mind like the sweetest torture for _weeks_.

His tongue flicks out, sliding gently over Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock gasps, lips parting beneath John's at the slick and succulent sensation of _John_.

John's slips his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth and groans at the sweet, wine tart taste of him. He pulls Sherlock in closer and laves his tongue over the roof of that perfect mouth, swallowing Sherlock's gasps and the tiny whimpering sounds he makes. He nips just slightly at Sherlock's lower lip and Sherlock _groans_ low in his chest, and John realizes that if he doesn't stop now, they're going to get carried away by the moment.

He pulls back, almost giving in when Sherlock leans back in, clearly not ready to be done.

"We have to slow down." John gasps, and Sherlock drops his head to John's shoulder and nods. He knows John is right, however much he may not like it.

John cups the back of Sherlock's head, holding him firm and steady until their heartbeats slow and the tingling in their limbs subside. He waits patiently for Sherlock to stand, immediately missing the heat and warmth of him when he finally does. 

"We should get to bed, before this becomes more than either of us is ready for." John says quietly and Sherlock nods his assent.

"Goodnight John." He says, voice low and raspy. He packs up his violin, and turns toward the hall, but before he takes even a single step, he's caught by his wrist and another kiss is being pressed, somehow simultaneously gentle and fierce to his lips. 

John releases him, and clears his throat, licks the taste of Sherlock from his lips.

"Goodnight Sherlock." 

*********

Two hours later, Sherlock is still awake. He keeps reliving that kiss. He keeps feeling John's hands in his hair, and the tingling press of their lips.

He touches his fingertips to his mouth for what must be the millionth time in the past couple of hours.

He lies back on the bed, and just before he reaches for his phone to entertain himself, he hears it.

John.

Low moans and groans, gasping calls for help.

_Nightmare_

Sherlock jumps up.

"Stupid, I've been an idiot." He mutters harshly to himself, making his way to the kitchen for a bottle of water.

"Of course he has nightmares. He's a wounded war veteran, the man has PTSD." He murmurs, rushing back to John's room where he announces himself with a knock before cracking the door open.

John is sitting up in bed, covered in cold sweat, vest plastered to his skin, tear tracks on his face, and breathing perilously close to hyperventilation.

"John." Sherlock says quietly, slipping silently into the room and pressing the door closed.

"I'm fine Sherlock, you can go back to bed. I'm sorry for waking you." He rasps out and Sherlock shakes his head no. He perches himself at the end of John's bed, twists the cap from the water, and hands it over.

"Take small sips, and deep breaths. I'll be right back." He instructs, making his way to John's ensuite where he wets a flannel with cool water, and pulls a fresh set of sheets from the linen closet.

When he steps back into the room, John's breathing is slowing, but his eyes are still wide and scared and Sherlock _hates_ seeing him like this. He climbs onto the bed and wipes gently at John's face with the flannel, wiping the sticky sweat and salty tears away, leaving nothing behind but a tired man.

"Come on. Into the chair for just a moment." And John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock covers it with one hand and tugs at him with the other until John acquiesces and leaves the bed to sit in the chair next to it.

Sherlock quickly and efficiently strips off the sheets, tossing the dirty ones into the hamper, then gets the new ones on in record time. He moves to John's dresser, and pulls out a fresh vest, which he hands to John without a word before turning away to allow him his privacy. He doesn't even _consider_ peeking when John is so vulnerable.

He hears the rustle of fabric, the flop of the damp vest to the floor, and the susurrus of the new one being pulled on over John's hair. When he's sure John is completely dressed, he turns back around. 

"Alright, back into bed." He says in a low, firm voice, and his tone does the trick. John doesn't even hesitate, he simply pulls back the blankets and climbs into bed.

On an impulse, Sherlock decides that he's not leaving. Once John settles, Sherlock climbs into bed beside him, laying his head on John's chest and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"It's alright. I won't leave you alone." He whispers, and John's arms come up to wind around his shoulders.

"Thank you." John breathes, and they lie there together in the darkness until sleep takes them both, and there are no more nightmares that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Benares](http://www.benaresrestaurant.com) is an actual restaurant in London, so check it out if you feel so inclined.
> 
> If you'd like to hear for yourself the song Sherlock plays for John, the word "play" in that portion of the fic is a link to the YouTube video I scoured the Internet for trying to find the perfect song.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter and I'll see you in two Wednesday's. :)


	8. The Frailty of Genius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Days got away from me. Thought it was Tuesday on Wednesday so I'm a day behind, sorry about that!
> 
> As always, much thanks goes to [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for her amazing skills as both a beta and a friend! You're the best darling!
> 
> All mistakes are mine! 
> 
> Enjoy

The next morning John wakes with Sherlock in his arms. He smiles down at him before the memories of last night flood his brain, and his brows come down, the skin between them pinching in shame. He tries to untangle himself and slip quietly from the bed but Sherlock just wraps himself around him even tighter before he rumbles out a single word in a sleepy voice.

"Don't." He says as he snuggles back into John's chest trying to drift back off to sleep.

John, despite his embarrassment over the previous night can't help but to run a warm palm up the long expanse of Sherlock's back as he recalls the young man's gentle care after what had been an absolute _bitch_ of a nightmare. 

He hadn't asked him for any specifics, hadn't pried or poked into things John preferred not to speak on, hadn't said much of anything actually. He'd simply given warm, methodical care, and _companionship_. Had gotten John through the worst of it and then promised him that he wouldn't leave him to deal with it himself, that John wouldn't wake in another couple hours afraid and disoriented, and _alone_. Sherlock had somehow instinctively known _exactly_ what he'd needed and had given it to him without even _realizing_ just how much it truly meant. And now here he was, the morning after, grumbling sleepily at John for being awake but still in John's bed, pressed warm and soft against his body.

John runs his hand gently through sleep mussed curls.

"You didn't have to stay." He says quietly, not wanting to wake Sherlock if he'd already fallen back to sleep, but Sherlock's arm tightens around his waist for just a quick moment and John can almost _hear_ the eye roll.

"Of course I did." Sherlock huffs in a tired voice.

"What kind of awful person do you take me for?" He asks in a slightly offended tone. "I wouldn't leave you that way." He says, voice raspy with slumber.

"Now go back to _sleep_." He implores John, grumbling as he tucks his face into the crook of John's neck and tries once again to relax back into sleep.

John glances at the clock on the nightstand, and realizes that it's past seven, which means Sherlock must be off, and he himself is on call. He grabs his phone, turns it all the way up just in case there's an emergency, then wraps his arms around Sherlock and takes a deep breath. He lets his body go limp, and sinks down into his pillows, eyes fluttering closed as he savors the heat of this brilliant and gorgeous boy who by some bit of very fortunate happenstance actually _cares_ for him.

They've earned this lie in.

********** 

Just over an hour later, Sherlock wakes. He cracks one eye open and glares at the sun glowing brightly through both the clouds and the shades. It doesn't take him more than a moment to realize that he's alone, but before he can draw any erroneous conclusions as to what pulled John from bed, the man himself comes padding out of the en suite in pyjamas and stocking feet. 

He looks over at the bed and smiles.

"Oh good, you're awake. Come on, we've lazed about long enough. Into the kitchen, and I'll make breakfast. If you're quick about it, I'll put chocolate in your waffles and make you a cup of that Italian coffee you like so much." He says, and the offer is enticing enough that Sherlock swings his legs over the side of the bed, stopping to rub his eyes and blow out a long breath before standing.

"There had better be a lot of bloody chocolate in those waffles John." Sherlock grouses before stepping from John's bedroom to the sound of John's laugh, and shuffling his way to the loo to handle his morning ablutions. 

Teeth brushed and bladder empty, Sherlock stops by his room to grab up his laptop, and settles himself at the island while John putters about the kitchen. The sound of sausage sizzling and the smell of the waffle batter cooking in the iron on the counter next to the refrigerator makes his stomach grumble and he groans annoyedly.

"Do you know how long it took me to build up a resistance to the idea of food? To condition myself not get hungry every time I smelled something particularly aromatic? How, in the space of a week, have you managed to undo _years_ hard work?" He asks, tapping at his keyboard, fingers flying as he complains about his hunger.

"Good food will do that Sherlock, it comes with the territory." He snarks, setting the promised cup of coffee on the island, and peeking over the top of Sherlock's laptop, too curious to be ashamed at his invasiveness. 

"What're you working on so diligently?" He asks as he turns to the stove to flip the sausages.

"Nothing. I was looking into getting a new microscope. As much as I love mine it's getting a bit old. I've had it since I began uni when I was 16, and despite my best efforts, it's beginning to fall apart on me." He answers with a sigh.

John makes a contemplative humming noise, and Sherlock glances up at him, but when he does John is pulling waffles from the iron and he loses interest in anything but the chocolate and pecan waffle John sets on a plate before him.

He lifts the syrup, and pours a healthy amount onto his food before cutting into it with the side of his fork, and taking a large bite, ignoring John's smug smile.

"Oh my god I hate you. Why is this so good?" He asks around his mouthful, and John taps one finger to his nose as he laughs.

"I'll never tell." He answers, and before Sherlock can quip back at him in response John reaches out, dragging his thumb over Sherlock's lower lip to remove a smudge of syrup that had been clinging there. He holds Sherlock's gaze and very deliberately brings his thumb to his mouth, sucking at it gently.

Sherlock takes a deep breath, and it stutters out of his lungs, his eyes locked on John's mouth pursed around his finger as he suckles it clean.

"You're a menace." He says breathily, a pretty pink flush climbing up his neck, and John laughs low and full of mischief and Sherlock can feel it on his skin as palpable as a touch. Desire twists hot and fluttery in his belly, flapping like butterflies' wings against his insides.

"Oh Sherlock, you have no idea." John responds, and he turns back to the stove to finish his own breakfast, leaving Sherlock gaping at the back of his head while flashes of himself seated on the counter with John between his legs and his fingers threaded through the shorts strands of hair at the base of John's neck while John's beard scrapes roughly over the soft skin of his throat assault his senses. 

"I want you." Sherlock blurts out, then claps a hand to his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that aloud, and from the look on John's face as he turns back to Sherlock, John _knows_ it. 

"And I you, very very much." John says honestly.

"Then why'd you stop us last night? I wanted you so badly, you could have had me then." Sherlock asks quietly, needing to understand, and John's rapacious expression softens.

"Because Sherlock, you're so clearly inexperienced. I don't know if you're a virgin or not, but I don't want to shock you by just tossing you off into the deep end, nor do I _ever_ want to take advantage of you. Besides, there's a few things about my sexual desires that you should know about before we cross any big lines..." He trails off and Sherlock scoffs.

"Please don't insult my intelligence and tell me you think that I don't already _know_." He says with a dramatic eye roll.

"John I slept in your _bedroom_. You've seen what I can do. Just because I didn't lay it all out for you doesn't mean I didn't _observe_ every single detail. I _live_ with you. Do you _really_ believe I hadn't puzzled it all out and come to terms with my own interest in your particular appetencies after the very first night?" He asks, brow furrowed in sheer amazement that John could possibly believe Sherlock hadn't already put this all of this together. As if he would have accepted the invitation to _live here_ without first knowing absolutely everything about the man he'd be sharing with?

"You know?" John chokes out, and Sherlock levels him with a look that says very clearly that he's being an idiot, then sighs.

"John, you're a 38 year old man who is romantically interested in _me_." He says, and John winces a bit but Sherlock slips out of his chair and sidles around the island to insinuate himself into the small space between John and the counter.

"Stop it. That wasn't a dig at you. John if I didn't _want_ to be here, I wouldn't be. Besides, if I ever decide to insult you, you won't have to wonder. You will be very _thoroughly_ insulted. I'm not necessarily gentle about it." He jokes and John can't keep the small smile from tipping his lips.

Sherlock reaches out and takes John's hands in his own.

"You're protective, very much so. Possessive, although you hide it well. A natural caretaker, for heavens sake John you're a doctor _and_ a soldier. I mean, look around, I've been here for three nights and you've happily fed me three solid meals every single day." He says, gesturing at his half eaten breakfast.

"You yourself admitted that you're somewhat controlling and you spent what I _know_ , despite your best efforts to keep me in the dark, was an _obscene_ amount of money buying me a completely new wardrobe simply because you _could_. And if there were any doubt left to be had, the custom made four poster bed, and the closet door that locks _from the outside_ certainly put paid to them." He says, hands wrapping gently around John's wrists, as he looks into his eyes.

"Yes, I'm inexperienced. I've attempted sex twice and only succeeded once, but I'm _smart_ John. A proper genius." He says, eyes brightening at John's smile.

"I may not have much practical knowledge, but I have all the theoretical understanding anyone could ever need, and I am telling you, that I want to _know_ , and I want _you_ to be the one to teach me." He finishes, and John gives him a long look, head cocked in thought, before he lets out a deep breath.

"And you're sure?" John asks, looking Sherlock directly in his eyes.

"Absolutely." Sherlock responds, holding John's gaze.

"Three things." John says, and Sherlock breathes a small sigh of relief.

"One, what do you mean by you 'attempted' sex twice and succeeded once." He asks, and Sherlock groans, because of course _that's_ the bit John picks up on.

"I-" He cuts himself off and starts again. "When I was 19 I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I was pretty sure at this point that I was gay, but in the name of scientific surety I tried seducing a woman I had met in one of my chemistry courses. She saw right through me almost immediately, and was a proud lesbian, but offered to help because she said she already knew I was gay so she had nothing to worry about. She was by all rights, beautiful, and I couldn't maintain an erection. It was everything we both expected, no harm done. Her name was Irene, she was interesting." He answers with a slight shrug of one shoulder, and John nods.

"And the successful attempt?" He asks, and Sherlock's nose wrinkles in distaste.

"His name was Victor Trevor. He was an arsehole of monstrous proportions, but rather attractive. We met at a family party." He explains. "I got hard quickly, but lost it just as quickly. I mostly just remember how bad it hurt, and thinking that no one in their right mind would do that on purpose. Either that or the world was populated by more masochists than I'd assumed." He says, and John's eyes blaze with anger.

"He came within minutes, and mostly I was just relieved it was over. I took a shower and went to sleep, wanting nothing to do with sex as a whole. I tried it, and disliked it. I wrote it off and moved on." He finishes before taking a deep breath.

"But I have a _very_ good feeling that there isn't much that's selfish or inept about your style as a lover, and, if y-you'll have me," He stammers as his face heats up, but he holds John's gaze determinedly, and John smiles proudly, making Sherlock flush even hotter. 

"I'd like to know what it feels like to orgasm at the hand of another. Particularly someone that _knows what they're doing_." Sherlock stresses, and this time John's eyes blaze with an entirely different emotion. One Sherlock finds _much_ more interesting than anger.

John clears his throat and nods, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

"Alright then. The second thing is that, if we do this, we will still be taking it slow. Maybe not the glacial pace I had originally intended, but this will still be a gradual thing. It'll be easier that way for the both of us. You can learn what you do and don't like, and I can _also_ learn what you do and don't like, okay?" He says, shaking a hand gently free from Sherlock's grasp and stroking his thumb over the sharp cut of Sherlock's cheekbone when Sherlock nods his assent.

"Good, now for the last thing." And here, he tugs his other hand free as well, sliding both hands up to cup Sherlock's neck, thumbs stroking over the soft skin, fingers holding his head steady and he stares directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"Say it. You say you know, and I believe you, but none of this happens until I am one hundred percent sure that we are on the exact same page. Look me in my eyes and say the words." He commands, shoulders pressed back, making his chest open up even wider and Sherlock's mouth waters, even as a dark blush steals over his cheeks.

But his gaze never falters. He darts his tongue out to wet his lips and swallows deeply before answering.

"You like to play Daddy, and I'd very much like to be your good boy." He says, proud at how steady his voice is when his stomach is turning nervous circles, and his lungs can't pull in enough oxygen.

John scratches a hand through Sherlock's hair, his short nails dragging gently over his scalp, a wicked smile on his face.

"Alright. Tonight, we'll try it out."  
*********

The day _drags_. Sherlock is vibrating with anticipation and excess energy, practically _humming_ with it. He thought about his violin but he doesn't want to risk the strings with his mood. He taps out a few new findings into his website, grateful for even the smallest tasks to eat up the time between now and _then_ as he tries not to _explode_ with how much he wants it. He barely pokes at his lunch, and John doesn't say a word, he simply smiles kindly at Sherlock, who doesn't believe that smile for even a second. He may be a novice at sex, but he can read a face better than most anyone else, and he sees the smirk hiding behind those gentle eyes, the cocksure grin just barely peeking out of that smile leaving Sherlock to wonder what bloody _fuck_ he's gotten himself into. 

When the day starts to wane, he sets his laptop aside and goes to shower, hoping that the hot water will help unknot the kinks all the tension of the day has put in his muscles.

He steps from the shower, hair dripping around his shoulders and smelling of sandalwood and mildly of citrus, then stops cold, staring at the blood red dressing gown and a small pair of black pants hanging from the hook on the back of the door. He holds his head down and refuses to blush. Refuses to even look at himself in the mirror until he pulls it together. He takes a deep breath and pats himself dry, creaming his skin and combing through his curls, dragging a bit of leave-in conditioner through them to make them shine. 

_God but he loves having all of his things again._

He pulls the pants on, then slides the silken gown carefully from its velvet hanger and over his shoulders, folding it around himself, but belting it loosely with one twist of the ends. He finally looks at himself in the mirror and fingers his curls into place before, on a spur of the moment decision he spends the next 4 minutes carefully applying a thin ring of black liner to each of his eyes. Once he's satisfied with it he brushes his teeth, wipes his mouth, takes a deep breath and leaves the loo.

He doesn't know why he expected to be mauled, given John's general disposition. John wasn't even in the hall, he was in the kitchen, doing the dinner dishes while letting some godawful late night show host who's asking a celebrity a question they've probably been asked more times than they can remember drone on in the background. 

Sherlock smiles slightly that he'd thought to stop by his room for a book when he realized John was in no type of hurry. He flops down onto the sofa the long way and stuffs a pillow behind his head, then rests the bottom of the tome on his chest, while the back of it leans up against his thighs. He opens to his page, and within minutes he's lost himself in the subject, mind spinning with new information and information that has since been updated. 

John finished the dishes and turns, wiping his hands dry on a tea towel as his eyes subconsciously seek out Sherlock. He finds the young man curled up against one end of the sofa, legs bent at the knees with a large book on _apiology_ of all things, leaned in the negative space created by his position.

He's long, longer than anyone has a right to be. Pale, with skin the colour of roses and cream. The dark red of the dressing gown is slipping down one thigh, and over the opposite shoulder, draped artfully off his body because he hasn't bothered to belt it properly and John has to close his eyes and lean his head against the counter for just a moment, reining himself in before his body takes over and he ravishes the boy right there in the siting room.

When he finally lifts his head he finds Sherlock leaning casually against one of the windows staring over at John with a small smirk at the corner of his lips. John notes the dark liner framing luminous kaleidoscopic eyes, and has to stifle the growl threatening to bubble up out of his throat.

John raises an eyebrow in his Sherlock's direction, then steps around the island and holds out one hand, palm up.

John watches Sherlock take a deep breath, then shoulder himself away from the wall and saunter towards him, eyes smiling mischievously as he peeks coyly over his dark fringe, his hips swinging just a little more than what is really necessary.

He watches as John's eyes darken with lust even as John takes his hand with a easy grip, tugging gently as he turns and begins to make his way to his bedroom.

Once inside he closes the door with a quiet _snick_ then swivels to face Sherlock.

"Still sure?" He asks, and Sherlock nods.

"Use words, lovely boy." John prompts softly, and Sherlock swallows, throat going dry at the endearment.

"Yes. I'm sure. I'm _ready_." he rasps out, and John smiles.

"Very good." John purrs, leaning his shoulder against one of the posts as his gaze travels over Sherlock.

"Onto the bed, if you please." He asks in a calm voice. His tone is just as bright and pleasant as always, but with a dark undercurrent that wafts over Sherlock, whispering over his skin like smoke, his blood forcing it's way through him so harshly he can _feel_ the flow of it pressing through his veins like gravel, slow and churning and _hot_. So hot he can feel the heat emanating from him, his body throwing off warmth like a small oven at those words from John's lips in _that_ voice.

He climbs gingerly onto the bed then turns to face John, tucking his legs beneath him as he waits, watching John watch him. 

For a moment there is only silence, then Sherlock's mouth falls open.

"Oh." He explains quietly.

"Bloody fucking _hell_." He whispers, words slipping out of his mouth as he realizes what's about to happen. As everything he's allowed slip by him, unseen in the wake of his lust settles into his mind and clicks into place. 

" _There_ we are," John says sweetly, voice so saccharine Sherlock can _taste_ it, but this time it's low, and _deep_ , and Sherlock marvels at the shudder it chases down his spine.

"Knew you'd get there, once you got out of _there_." John says, leaning forward to press a finger softly to Sherlock's temple. He cups the young man's face gently, smiling when Sherlock nuzzles gently, shoulders dropping a bit as he relaxes into John's tender touch.

John lets his fingertips trail over Sherlock's jaw, then pulls away and lifts the chair from his desk that Sherlock had guided him into the night before, and settles it at the end of the bed. He stands behind it and grips the back, letting the chair take his weight.

Sherlock watches the muscles in his arms flex beneath the navy and white striped jumper. He sees them pull and strain with John's weight on them, pressing into the chair and has to restrain himself from leaning forward, ridding John of all his _ridiculous_ layers, and setting his tongue to them.

Thankfully, before his restraint runs out, John speaks.

"Do you remember Sherlock, in the shop? You came out of the fitting room wearing only this. You _'tested a hypothesis.'_ Do you remember that?" He asks, eyes traveling down the thin visible line of Sherlock's chest between its barely parted halves, completely missing Sherlock's small nod.

"You did it to have a laugh. A quick tease to rile me because you _knew_ what it would do to me to see you like that." He pauses, eyes snapping back up to Sherlock's to emphasize his point.

"Lie back beautiful." John says gently, and Sherlock blows out a long breath before following the order and lying down on his back, arms out to his sides, his nerves singing as the cool white sheets rasp over the small bits of exposed skin at his ankles and wrists. He looks up to John for direction, and his body relaxes into the sheets when John smiles reassuringly back down at him.

"Get yourself off." John says and Sherlock gapes at him in wide eyed shock.

John grins and steps in close to look directly into Sherlock's eyes.

"I want you to strip yourself out of those _delicious_ pants," He says, fingering the hem of them through the body warm silk covering Sherlock's thighs, then pulling the tie completely loose and spreading the gown open around him, making him look like a dark faerie, housed in the blood red petals of a blooming rose. "and lie there in my bed and _show me_ how you get yourself off." John pauses and runs a hand down Sherlock's ribs to grip him firmly at the waist. 

"Get yourself off for me Sherlock, show me what makes you feel good. Can you do that for me sweetheart?" He asks, and Sherlock groans, making John's smile pull into a half smirk. 

"I want to know _all_ the ways you love to be touched before I ever put my hands on your _beautiful_ body." He continues and Sherlock feels the flush steal down his throat and spread across his chest and _oh god_ he didn't know this was a thing people actually _did_. He always assumed this kind of filthy talk was something you only ever saw in pornography and bad romance novels.

He's never been more happy to be proven wrong.

"I-I've never done that with someone watching." He says in a small voice and John comes around the bed, leaning in to press a light kiss the the soft mounds of Sherlock's lips.

"You're a _'proper genius'_ , right?" John asks with a small smile, and Sherlock nods.

"Words sweetheart." John chides gently and Sherlock swallows to lubricate his throat.

"Yes, I am." He croaks out.

"Then you're smart enough to know where I'm going with that." John quips and Sherlock grins, nodding his head in understanding.

"The frailty of genius is that it needs an audience." Sherlock says around his smile.

"Well, you've got your audience..." John trails off in a _wicked_ tone, before stepping back around and sitting in the chair, the best possible seat from which to watch and breathes out at the sight of him.

"So lovely." He sighs reverently.

Sherlock glances up at him from under his lashes, and the look of awed desire scrawled over John's face burns the nervousness from Sherlock's body, leaving him loose limbed and languid, sprawled over John's bed. 

He worries at his lip and decides at that very moment that he's going to give John Watson a show he'll _never_ forget.

There are many things that Sherlock Holmes is, and body shy isn't one of them.

He trails his fingers gently down over his throat, allowing the sensation to buzz over his skin like electricity. Feeling John's gaze follow the path his hands take as bares his neck, _knowing_ that John has quite the preoccupation with that particular bit of him. 

He smiles softly when he hears John suck in a breath, letting his hands drift down his chest, barely brushing his nipples, and biting at his lip to hold in his gasp.

"No." John rasps out, settled comfortably in the chair. Sherlock's hands stop, but then John stands, and walks around the bed, leaning over the side to stare down intensely into Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't stifle. Don't muffle. I want to _hear_ you. Every single whimper and whine. I want to know the difference between the sound you make when you're close, and the sound you make when you're _there_. Every single moan and gasp Sherlock, I want them all." John says in a low voice, watching with pleasure as he a dark flush creeps all the way down Sherlock's chest. 

" _God_ Sherlock, you're so beautiful." John breathes and Sherlock leans up quickly to steal a kiss. Their lips connect and John grunts in shock before relaxing into it, cradling Sherlock's head in his hands, and threading his fingers through sleek, citrus scented hair.

He swipes his tongue across the seam of Sherlock's lips and Sherlock _groans_ into his mouth, parting his lips sweetly and sighing happily when John's takes the invitation and slips inside.

John leans in, pressing Sherlock down to the bed, kneeling just next to him as he kisses Sherlock breathless, and even then keeps going, until Sherlock is dizzy and has to wrench himself away from John's mouth to take deep gulps of precious oxygen.

"Jesus John." Sherlock gasps and John smiles down at him before swooping in and taking his mouth again, drinking his fill of the sweetness of Sherlock's taste. He lifts a hand from Sherlock's head dragging his fingers over Sherlock's neck and shoulders. Unlike Sherlock's light, teasing touches, John's hand is firm. Full of promise and intent, and Sherlock shivers.

John pulls away and puts his mouth the Sherlock's ear.

"You're supposed to be showing me what you like Sherlock." John chides playfully as he strokes a hand down over Sherlock arm and back up the sensitive underside that makes Sherlock's whole body tingle when touched.

"You seem to be doing a rather fair job of figuring it out yourself. I see no reason to deny you the opportunity of experimentation." Sherlock says in what John is _sure_ was meant to be a haughty tone, and might have been too, if Sherlock's breath hadn't hitched twice.

John smiles and it's almost sympathetic, before he throws a leg over Sherlock, straddling his hips easily.

"Oh, Sherlock." He says softly, then leans in and trails the tips of his blunt cut fingernails over the curve of both of Sherlock's ears, sending a shiver racing down his spine. He traces his index fingers down Sherlock sternum, then dips his head forward to lap at the hollow of Sherlock's throat, pulling his hands from between them and being sure to let his thumbs graze Sherlock's nipples hard enough that Sherlock gasps above him, his back arching up from the bed a bit. 

John lets his hands pull down over Sherlock's sides, feeling Sherlock's muscles jump and choked moans at the sensations.

John pulls away and peers down at Sherlock. Takes note of his swirling, lust dazed eyes, kiss swollen lips, and flushed skin.

"Sweetheart I don't need experiments to know how to _ruin_ you." John growls and Sherlock moans, reaches down between them shoves at his pants until they're tucked just far enough down for him to take himself in hand.

"Me watching?" John starts, eyes falling to Sherlock's lap, and mouth watering at the sight of that pretty pink cock as he sits astride his thighs while the young man gives his cock a single, light tug. "This is to learn _you_ , darling." John says sweetly, and Sherlock's hips try to buck, but he can't move overmuch with John on top of him and that thought pulls a soft choked sound from the back of his throat.

John reaches over him into the nightstand and removes a small, black bottle. He grips the hand Sherlock has wrapped around himself and pulls it away, pours a generous amount into it, then replaces Sherlock's hand, smirking devilishly at Sherlock's harsh inhale.

"I need to know if you twist at the head, and if you like a tight or firm grip. Do you favor long, slow strokes, or quick, shallow ones. Do you jerk your whole cock or just the tip. Do you like your balls played with? Would you like my head between your thighs, kissing and licking at your skin while I pulled at you with slow dragging strokes until you begged me to come?" John keeps going, the words of his own fantasies pouring from his mouth.

"John!" Sherlock rasps out, throat dry from panting, lube slick hand moving quickly over his cock, wasting no time in racing to the finish line.

John can see he'll have to teach him some patience, but that can be worked on. For now, he's as eager to watch Sherlock's orgasm as Sherlock is to have it. 

John reaches out and presses down on Sherlock's nipples with calloused thumbs, chuckling softly when Sherlock's back bows up off the bed, his pinned lower body still beneath John, bringing them near face to face with the movement. 

Sherlock flops back down against the bed.

"Oh god John again. Again, again, again." Sherlock chants, and John does, this time scraping ever so gently over those dusky pink perky buds with carefully trimmed nails.

Sherlock _wails_ , body pulling taut, his eyes flashing open, and his mouth parted in ecstasy as his cock pulses in his hand and the thick white streams of his pleasure pour out of him, coating his belly and fingers.

"Beautiful." John whispers as Sherlock sinks back into the bed, his eyes drifting closed, and a smile he can't hold back spreading over his face. He knows he should get up and clean up but he can't be arsed at the moment and instead revels in the limp, relaxed state of his body.

The sound of a zipper pulls him from his revelry. His eyes snap open in just enough time for Sherlock to see John reach into his pants and jerk himself, hand slick with the same lube he had provided Sherlock. Sherlock reaches up and tugs John's jeans down around his thighs, giving him more room to work with, and giving Sherlock a better view and dear fucking _God_ Sherlock immediately wants it _inside_ him. He reaches out to touch but John stops him.

"Not this time sweetheart. This time I just want you to watch." John instructs and Sherlock _whines_ , but then his eyes narrow in concentration.

"Alright. I'll _watch_ you then, John Watson. But remember who I am," Sherlock purrs in that deep baritone. John's hips jerk at the sound, and he falls forward over Sherlock, holding himself up on one arm, eyes squeezed shut and sweat beading his hairline as he gasps for breath.

"I _observe_ John, better than anyone else you'll ever know. So go ahead and show me. Show me what you like, teach me what gets you hard. What gets you hot." He rumbles, leaning his head up to breathe the words against John's ear, and clicking his tongue hard on that last 't'.

"Make me watch what gets you off, and by the end of it all, I'll know how to please you, better than you do." Sherlock says airily, as he teases the tip of his tongue over the top of John's ear, and that's what does it for John. That small bit of sensation on top of too much everything else and he stills, buries his face in Sherlock's neck and comes over the young man's belly with a low groan.

"Don't muffle yourself John. I want to _hear_ you." He parrots John's earlier words back at him, his mischievous smirk audible in his voice.

John pulls away with a snort, and cups Sherlock's face in his clean hand.

"How was that?" He asks, and Sherlock grins up at him, smile brighter than he can ever remember. 

"It was perfect." He says honestly, and John smiles that beaming smile right back at him. 

" _You_ are perfect." He corrects, then topples himself off of Sherlock, and makes his way into the en suite. 

For a long moment Sherlock hears the water running, then it shuts off, and John steps back into the room, clad in a vest and pyjama bottoms, holding a small bowl of soapy water. As he comes closer Sherlock sees the flannel in the bowl, and John sets it on the nightstand before dipping out the cloth and wringing it, then using the soft, warm material to clean the sticky mess from Sherlock. He leans in and presses a kiss to Sherlock's mouth. 

"Back in a tick sweetheart." He says sweetly, then slips out of the room and returns just a few minutes later with water bottles and pyjamas for Sherlock. 

Sherlock groans at the thought of standing, but slips from the bed and dresses, sipping at his water as John stretches a new set of sheets over the mattress. 

John climbs in and holds his arms open, smiling when Sherlock flops gracelessly into bed, rolling into his arms and tucking his head up under John's chin. 

John presses and kiss to the top of his head, and wraps an around around Sherlock's slim shoulders. 

"Rest well, Sherlock." John says quietly, and Sherlock sighs contentedly. 

"And you as well, John." He replies, then lets his eyes slide shut. 

As he drifts, his mind wonders idly that if _this_ is what John turns a wank into, he cannot _wait_ to find out what's next. That last stretches his mouth into a soft smile and in the next moment, he's asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there we are, the first little bit of smut with our boys, I hope you guys liked it, and know that there is MUCH more coming!
> 
> Also, I'm not going to be tagging specific sex acts, because I don't want to ruin the element of surprise for those that want it. What I _will_ do for my readers that track tags to decide if they want to read is I'll put them here in the end notes.
> 
> For this chapter the tags are dirty talk and masturbation.
> 
> Love you guys! See you in two weeks!


	9. Love, Is A Much More Vicious Motivator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lessons are learned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aright, so here I am. It's well into the night, but it's still Wednesday! So I'm officially back on track! Woo hoo! I worked my butt off to get this chapter up in time, so I really hope you guys like it!
> 
> As always a million thanks and all love to [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for the amazing beta skills, the cheerleading when I got lazy, and the being an awesome friend! Thanks so much darling!
> 
> All mistakes are my very own.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Good morning, little prince." Is what Sherlock wakes to the next morning. He's comfortable and warm, and his eyes have only just blinked open, but he's wrapped in John's arms and John's lips are pressed to his hair, murmuring sweet morning salutations, and Sherlock can't do anything but sigh contentedly.

He settles back against John's chest, content to sleep the morning away with John's heart beating strong and steady just beneath his ear. The lullaby he never knew he wanted.

John tangles his fingers in the short curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck and revels in the heat of the long lithe body that's pressed against his own. 

Not that he gets to enjoy it for long. 

Sherlock's phone chimes four times in a row and the young man leans over and stretches one long arm over to the nightstand, plucks it from its charger, then brings it close to his sleep fogged eyes. 

John watches him read the messages, and he can actually _pinpoint_ the moment when the mild curiosity in the young man's eyes sharpens to a laserlike focus he hasn't seen on him before.

"Lestrade has a case for me." Sherlock says, hopping up out of bed, and striding from the room to shower and dress.

"15 minutes if you're coming." He calls over his shoulder, and John quickly untangles himself from the sheets and darts into the loo.

Of course he's going. Sherlock's a tall, pale, mouthy _target_ , and John? Well, John is his shield.

**********

When they arrive at the crime scene the woman John met on the first case is there, keeping the nosy neighbors from getting beyond the police tape.

"Hello freak." She says casually, and John frowns but Sherlock simply looks down his nose at her.

"Donovan." He replies, slipping beyond the tape and holding it up for John who moves to duck beneath it when he's stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

"Sorry freak, but this is a crime scene. If you want to take your dates somewhere special, try dinner like everyone else." She says, one eyebrow raised in John's direction.

"He's with me." Sherlock says simply, ignoring her and beckoning John in his direction with a flick of his wrist. 

John shrugs and steps under, following closely behind Sherlock, eyes flitting his way and that as he takes in all he can. 

They enter the house, and Sherlock sees Lestrade and strides over to him, pointing John in the direction of the Tyvek suits as he studies the body laid out in the sitting room.

Once John gets his kit on he moves to the sitting room where Greg and Sherlock are and gets his first look at the immediate scene of the crime.

The victim is a woman. She's on a grey rug with her long, dyed black hair spilled out around her, her discreetly expensive designer clothes molded to her body. Her back is pulled into a high arch, she smells of vomit, and she's clearly been frothing at the mouth. Her toes are pointed harshly, limbs bent at painful angles and her teeth are bared, lips pulled back in a grotesque imitation of a smile. 

John breathes out and looks at Sherlock, who is already staring back at him.

"Dr. Watson?" He asks, and John's brow furrows.

"Yes?" He replies, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I was hoping you had some information you might like to share? Anything about the victim you think would be pertinent to the investigation?" He asks, and John steps forward, bends down onto one knee and looks her over. She's cold and stiff, moreso than she should be for how much time has passed. There's clear indication of a drug overdose but no track marks or signs of previous drug use. 

John breathes out and kneels back, looking up at Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Looks like an overdose." He says, standing and brushing carpet lint from his knees. Sherlock huffs, but John ignores it and continues.

"I say 'looks' because it was very clearly staged. Had she overdosed she'd likely have passed out and choked to death on her own vomit, but this? This was deliberate. Whatever drug she was given was laced with something, strychnine being my best guess. It would explain the rigor that's set in much too quickly, the exaggerated pull on her muscles, and the 'smile'." He finishes. He glances over at Sherlock who's eyes are bright and maybe just a little bit awed. There's a small smile on his lips and John has to look away because it's disgustingly inappropriate to be aroused in this moment, but if Sherlock keeps looking at him like that there won't be much he can do about it.

"Risus Sardonicus." Sherlock says aloud, turning to Greg, who looks up at him, pulls out and pen and pad, and prepares for the lightening fast flow of words he _knows_ is coming.

"Well done John." Sherlock says, and Greg's mouth falls open in shock, but before he can say anything about it, Sherlock is off to the races.

"There's a single needle prick in her arm. And none in the other, more easily hidden spots like between her toes, fingers, or in the bends of her knees, so she's not an abuser." He begins, waving a hand in the direction of her feet. 

"John is correct about the strychnine, the 'grin' gave it away. This was murder, and given the stricken look on your face it's not the first of these murders which means you've been an idiot and waited too long to call me in on something I could have solved in a few hours at my worst." He says with a sigh, but Greg's face goes hard.

"Well we thought they were overdoses Sherlock, and I didn't want to bring you into this one if it wasn't necessary, it seemed wrong with..." He trails off, but Sherlock nods.

"I appreciate the concern but I'm not tempted." Sherlock begins, and Greg raises and eyebrow at him.

Sherlock sighs.

"Okay, yes of _course_ I'm tempted, I'm an addict, but I'm not going back." He says and Greg gives him a single nod before Sherlock gasps out a quiet "Oh." then stalks off for the kitchen where Donovan is interviewing the victim's sister.

He stands to the side and watches, rolling his eyes at the inane line of questioning, then steps across the kitchen and peers down into light brown eyes bright with shock.

"Tell me about the book that was on the mantle?" He asks, and the kind looking woman covers her face.

"That bloody book. If I never see it again it'll be too soon. That awful thing caused all this. That book and my sister's inability to stop _bragging_ about it." She says shakily, voice hitching with misery.

"What was the name?" John asks from behind Sherlock and Sherlock has to stifle a grin at the curiosity he hears bubbling inside the man.

"Tamerlane and Other Poems, by Edgar Allan Poe. There's only something like twelve originals left in existence and just two in private hands, my sister's copy being one of those. She loved to brag that a brit had managed to get their hands on something so pricelessly american, and the damn stupid thing got her killed." She says in exhausted melancholy.

"We're very sorry about your sister ma'am, and we're going to do all we can to find out who did this." John says, and Sherlock turns to Lestrade and jerks his head then strides across the kitchen, leaving John behind to try and console the woman now weeping gently in his arms.

Sherlock's never been particularly good at providing comfort to strangers.

"We need to go to the Met." He says quietly, trying not to disturb the sobbing woman. 

"I need everything you've got on all the victims and an empty room to think." He continues, and Lestrade nods. 

"You want a ride or are you going to grab a cab?" He asks, and Sherlock scoffs.

"Are you really asking me that?" Sherlock asks incredulously and Greg rolls his eyes.

"Don't know why I did." He says with a sigh. "See you there." He finishes, turning to get back to his job.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, about to go and untangle John from the victims sister, but John has already extricated himself and is moving across the kitchen floor with strong, sure strides. He stops just in front of Sherlock, but before he can say anything he watches Sherlock's expression shutter and turns to see what exactly brought it on.

Approaching the two of them, is a thin, reedy man with dark hair and a nose that doesn't fit his face. He's sneering at Sherlock and John feels his protective instinct make his hackles raise, and he finds himself grinning, baring his teeth in warning making the man stop further away than is normal at John's expression.

"Ah, Anderson. Always such a pleasure." Sherlock snipes preemptively, and the man called Anderson scrunches his face in distaste.

"Why are _you_ here?" Anderson seethes and Sherlock looks down at him uninterestedly.

"Mostly because you're an imbecile and I've been called in to do the job you're paid to do, but are horribly inept at." Sherlock drawls, and the man scowls over at him.

"Yeah well, not all of us can cop to being a psychotic _freak_." The man named Anderson spits out, and Sherlock rolls his eyes and scoffs.

"I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your _research_." He huffs irritatedly.

"Oh, and stop shagging Sally. Wouldn't want your wife to find out, now would we? Besides, she's on her way to actually becoming a halfway decent officer, don't be the thing that holds her back." He says, speaking over his shoulder as he walks away from Anderson's wide eyed spluttering.

John catches Sherlock up and looks over at him.

"Well, that was... Interesting. What's his problem with you?" He asks, and Sherlock laughs.

"I'm better than he is at his job and I didn't need any formal training to do it. When he first met me I was out of my head on cocaine and I still caught clues he would have never seen. Like the book. Philip Anderson would have never even knows there was a book there, let alone that it had been taken. He's an idiot, and he doesn't like that I call attention to it just by being myself. Nothing more to it really." He answers with a careless shrug, flagging a cab and sliding in.

He spends the entire ride tapping mercilessly at his phone, thumbs flying efficiently over the buttons, and John almost feels bad for the poor thing, what with all the abuse it has to put up with.

Once they reach the NSY Sherlock strides in, not bothering to stop at the desk and grab a visitors pass, and the secretary at the desk doesn't stop him. She simply rolls her eyes and goes back to her work, apparently deciding that scolding Sherlock isn't worth the trouble, a pattern John has seen a lot of.

"So you tear people to bits when they don't give you what you want? Scare them into compliance?" He asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion as Sherlock's cheeks go bright pink.

"I wouldn't say that. I don't bully anyone, but _do_ have high expectations of the men and women paid to _not_ be idiots." He finishes and John nods, satisfied with Sherlock's very Sherlockian explanation of having little patience for stupidity.

"I only pick at Anderson because he's a dick." Sherlock says bluntly, startling a small laugh out of John, and smiling down at him at the sound, before his face goes serious as he presses the button to call the elevator.

"I can't say that I've never been an arsehole, but I can say that it's only very rarely _on purpose_." He stresses. 

"Sometimes I lose control of my moods and my mouth..." He trails off, as they step into the lift.

"And sometimes I genuinely don't _understand_. Societal norms aren't something I've ever cared much about, and never enough to waste brain space _remembering_ them." He says, and John looks up into his face.

"So you were serious about the high functioning sociopath thing then?" He asks, and Sherlock nods firmly.

"Yes." He states, and John doesn't answer. He's seen Sherlock care for a man who had just tried to murder him, and nothing about that says 'sociopath', but he's not going to challenge his self-diagnosis. 

Sherlock is, whatever Sherlock says he is.

The lift doors open, revealing a large room packed full of desks, and a few offices along the walls.

Sherlock steps off and walks ahead, head high and full of confidence. He walks into one of the offices and shuts the door behind them, flicking on the light and flopping down into the chair behind the desk, rifling through he papers on it until he finds what he's looking for.

"Lestrade's left the case files here." He says, tossing one of them to John. 

The victim is a man, mid forties, balding, very thin with an almost comically large mustache. 

John scans the file, searching for an autopsy report, then sighs when he sees that there was no autopsy. To be expected he supposes, given that there was nothing very outwardly suspicious about the death itself, seeming like nothing more or less than an overdose.

"So what's the connection?" He asks himself aloud, trying to put this man, and the woman from earlier in the same place, with someone else who would want them both dead.

Sherlock finishes scanning the other two, then sits back in Lestrade's chair, eyes open but completely oblivious to the world around him. 

"I need to see their homes." He says suddenly, jumping up and almost running from the room, files in one hand and his phone in the other.

John races after him, the last file clutched in his fingers, the denim of his jeans swishing lightly as he slips into the lift in just enough time to not get left behind.

"Sherlock." He gasps out, and Sherlock looks down at him as if he's only just noticing John is there.

"Please try not to go running off like that. I don't want a murderer with a grudge to catch you unawares." He says, still panting, trying to catch his breath, as Sherlock scoffs.

"I'm _never_ unaware John." He replies haughtily, and John grins up at him.

"Yeah, sure you're not. Even though you only just realized I was running after you once we were on the lift together." He responds, on eyebrow raised in amusement.

Sherlock sighs.

"Yes, fine. But do keep up." He says annoyedly, and John just nods, following Sherlock from the building, and off into adventure.

*********

Hours later finds the two men back in their flat, Sherlock pinning scraps of paper to a notice board that was fished out of a closet after being very soundly scolded by John for sticking the pins directly into the wall.

"How did the police miss the thefts?" He asks, and Sherlock grunts.

"Because they were preoccupied with the victim, and any family around likely wouldn't have noticed the missing items given the fact that they would have been in shock over a death by overdose from someone they didn't think used drugs." Sherlock responds, words flowing out of him like rushing water, cool and unstoppable, beating against the inside of John's mind and changing the shape and configuration of his thoughts.

"Whoever it is, they are really good at staging an overdose." John says, standing from his chair and rubbing his tired eyes.

"Must really know their way around drugs of all sorts really, to have been able to get and use strychnine." He says before padding off to the loo to the sound of Sherlock shuffling through the papers on the coffee table.

While he's washing his hands, he hears a soft gasp of "Oh!" from the sitting room, then a long moment of soft rustling, and lastly, the slam of the front door.

"Shit!" John exclaims, wiping his hands hastily on a towel and racing to the empty sitting room. He grabs his gun from the table where he left it once they got back, shoved his feet into his shoes, and hurries from the flat _praying_ he can catch Sherlock before Sherlock catches a cab.

He presses the call button for the lift repeatedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waits, wishing he could just take the stairs but knowing it would be _much_ longer than just waiting.

Finally the lift comes, and he darts in, pressing he button for the first floor and banging at the button that's supposed to close the door.

By some uncanny stroke of luck, the lift isn't stopped on his way down, and John sprints across the main floor, skidding to a halt at the front desk.

"Tall, pale, dark hair, long coat, probably muttering to himself?" He pants, and the doorman points outside and to the left.

John takes off, too engrossed in finding Sherlock to remember to his manners.

He bangs through the doors, eyes swinging wildly from right to left, and yes, just there at the kerb he can see Sherlock closing the door of the black cab, face illuminated by the bright bluish light emanating from his phone.

"Sherlock!" He screams, but Sherlock either can't hear him, or simply doesn't, and the cab take off into the night.

John runs out into the road, forcing the cars to stop, and jumps into the first cab he sees.

"See that cab up there at the light?" He asks, and the cabbie nods slowly, clearly suspicious.

"Follow it, and I'll pay you three times what the meter says when we stop." John bargains, and the cabbie nods again, eagerly this time, pressing down on the gas and doing his best to keep Sherlock's cab in sight.

John sighs, leans back against the bench and tells himself to calm down. Promises himself that he'll catch him up before anything can happen, and then they'll have a nice long talk about running off after murderers _alone_.

 _'If he doesn't die, I'm going to kill him.'_ He thinks to himself.

The cab pulls to a stop, and John watched Sherlock slide out and stalk into the building before them. Some sort of pharmaceutical research facility, he pulls out his wallet and tosses the cabbie a handful of £20 notes, then takes off for the door, before stopping cold at the amount of security at the entrance.

He squares his shoulders and walks with purpose, making up in his mind that no one at this door is going to stop him from getting to Sherlock.

"What can we do for you today?" A strawberry blonde woman in a lab coat asks him pleasantly, and John clears his throat.

"Sorry." He says with a small smile. "My partner's a bit of an arsehole. The tall, pale bloke that just got here? Probably acted like he owned the place." John says, leaning in and lowering his voice, purposely not us on Sherlock name in case he had used an alias.

"Oh god, he was a right bastard." She gripes, and John nods in, hoping his face conveys apologetic irritation, and not the bone deep fear that's growing exponentially with every moment Sherlock spends out of his sight.

"God can you please get him out of here?" She asks conspiratorially, and John nods.

"Yep, that's actually my job. Try to keep him from being too much of a posh git, and removing him when that's not possible." He says with a stilted laugh, pulling a small giggle from the woman.

"Let him in guys, he's here to take the tall jerk off our hands." She calls, and the secure men step aside.

"Know where he is?" John asks, and she stops him near a map, and points out Sherlock's location.

"Think you can find it?" She asks, and John laughs.

"Yeah, I can find it. Thanks." He says, and this time he doesn't bother with the lifts. He takes the access pass she gives him, and uses it to bolt down the stairs at breakneck speed, jumping the last two or three at the end of each flight. Doing any and everything to close the gap between him and Sherlock Holmes.

When he gets to the lower level he stops before opening the door, taking a moment to get his breathing under control, then he swipes his access key, and slips quietly inside.

Immediately he hears Sherlock's voice.

"You stole an heirloom locket that made it through World War II, seen in the lining of a Jewish woman's jumper. It's worth millions now, which I'm sure you already know.  
Da Hong Pao tea, so rare it retails for £27,576 per ounce. A Glenn Brown that last sold for just over six million at Sotheby's, and an original manuscript worth just over six hundred thousand US Dollars." He lists, as John creeps closer to the pair of them, then hides himself behind a large filing cabinet.

"Yes well, they stole my work, and refused to see me compensated, used my NDA and their lawyers to swindle me me out of my creation. I was only getting back a bit of my own." The other voice claims, and John can just _barely_ see the back of the man's head around the cabinet.

"Yes, but you didn’t just kill four people because you’re bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love, is a much more vicious motivator. Ah." Sherlock says, a smug smile spreading over his face, even as John's heart pounds in his chest at the sight of the man, a gun in one hand and a syringe in the other, moving in closer to him.

John pulls out his own gun, and thumbs off the safety as quietly as he can.

"So who is it that's dying?" Sherlock asks, and the man stops dead in his tracks.

"Can't be your children or wife, your plan is moving along too slowly for that. Someone older, with a terminal case. Your mother then, which puts you finding out she was beyond any form of help just a few weeks after the board decided against making the drug available to the general public through insurance, although you have to know it wouldn't have helped her. Your drug contains the cancer to its area of origin yes, but it's no cure your mother was way too far along at that point for it to have done anything worthwhile for her." Sherlock explains.

"Only because they spent so long tying me up in red tape, so I could t get any of the money they made from it. Greedy bastards steal it from me, then refuse to save millions of lives in a bid for even more money. They deserved it. Every single one of them." The man spits.

"Yes." Sherlock answers simply, and the man laughs.

"You know, if the circumstances were different, I think I might have liked you." He says, and Sherlock scoffs.

"No." He says, just as simply as before, and the suspect laughs, before using his teeth to pull the cap from the syringe, and crossing that hand under the one with the gun to keep the gun level and steady as he moves in even closer.

John steps from his hiding place and takes aim, the sound of him thumbing down the hammer on his song ringing out sharp and metallic in the small dim room.

The man spins to see where the sound came from, and his eyes go wide when he sees the gun in John's hands. He tries to bring his own up from where not had dropped to his side in shock, but John puts an immediate stop to that.

"You can try it, but I guarantee you I'm faster." His says in a low, steady voice. The two men face off for a long moment before Sherlock sighs in irritation, steps forward, and with a flurry of precise movement, strikes out at his would be attacker, leaving him disarmed of both his gun and needle, and cradling what looks like a sprained wrist.

Sherlock pulls out his phone to text Lestrade until he's stopped by John.

" _Call_ him. I'm not in the mood to wait until he gets  
your bloody text." He says, and Sherlock looks up at his face, takes in his deadly serious face, then nods his head and calls Greg.

About twenty minutes in, Greg and his team arrive, and within minutes they have the killer cuffed and have his gun and syringe bagged and tagged.

Sherlock is running through his deductions for Greg, and John is leaning against a wall, watching.

"A quick poke through all their financial records show that they've all made large investments into GlaxoSmithKline around the same time. Coercion from the CEO of course, I'll let you guys pick him up. The man you just arrested is the head of research and development there, and after being beaten down by their lawyers concerning his claim over his invention of this, admittedly, world changing drug, they not only wrote him out of his contract, making one less person to share the money with, they also had a silent vote. One that took a count on how many of them would rather let hundreds of thousands of people suffer and die while they takes in cash, handover fist from those that could _pay_ to be healthy. Our suspect took offense, primarily because his mother is currently dying of terminal cancer, but also because in his warped mind, he thought he was being a good person, doing what was right, cutting out the cancer of society to get the drug on the market to the general public and available over insurance. He finishes with a flourish and John, even in all his stony anger can't help but to gaze up at Sherlock in amazing.

"That's fantastic!" He breathes and Sherlock preens, face going slightly pink, but his chin raises and his shoulders straighten, and Greg smiles.

"Alright, back to the station and we'll take a real stat-" He begins but John cuts him off.

"Sorry, but no. I'm tired, I'm hungry,  
I'm angry, and I smell bad. I am going home, having a shower, eating food, and going to bed. He just caught you a serial killer, surely you can give us until the morning for all the paperwork?" He says firmly, and Lestrade nods, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Too right. No reason we all have to be up all night. Go home, get some sleep, and meet me at the Met in the morning yeah?" He asks, and John nods his assent. 

"Thanks Greg." He says, holding out his hand to shake.

"I haven't forgotten about that pint, now I owe you two." He says and Greg smiles.

"Get my number from Sherlock, now go on, get out of here." He says, then he turns and walks over to Sally, who is marching the killer off to their panda car.

"Let's get a cab." John says, and his voice is low and controlled and sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

"John I-" 

"Not here." John cuts him off in that same tone, and together they make their way from the building and into a cab, and the entire ride home is made in tense silence.

*********

They step through the door of their flat, Sherlock trailing in quietly behind John, hoping he has enough time to slip off to his room and hide before John's inevitable explosion. 

Unfortunately, that's not the case.

He takes Sherlock's wrist in his hand with a firm but gentle pressure, and tugs him over to the sofa to sit.

"Sherlock, you cannot run of after murderers alone." He says evenly, and Sherlock can hear the ruthless control he's employing to keep himself from raging his anger loud enough for the entire building to hear.

"Your intellect isn't going to stop a fucking bullet, and you're not always going to be able to keep them talking until help arrives. Some people shoot first and ask questions later, and if you ever come up on one of those people without someone there to protect you, Sherlock you could be killed." He says, and Sherlock rolls his eyes, making John's go hard.

"I'm _fine_." he grouses petulantly, sounding more like a whiny teen than a detective.

"I'm a fairly adequate boxer and I'm trained in several different martial arts. I can take care of _myself_ John Watson. I don't _need_ protecting." He huffs, and John stands.

"Stand up." He says, voice cracking loud and sharp, like lightening.

Sherlock sighs and stands, watches as John removes his shirt, then, in his vest and jeans, stalks over to the end of the sofa, and gives it a heaving shove, the muscles in his arms straining against the sleeves of his vest and making Sherlock's throat go dry.

The sofa slides over the carpet a full meter out of the way leaving a large patch of carpeted floor between them. 

John stares over at Sherlock.

"Come on then." He says, bending slightly at his knees and waist, as if preparing for a fight.

"You say you're perfectly well trained, I say you're going to eat a bullet. Let's see who's right. If you pin me, I won't bug you again about running off." He says easily.

"But if I win, you don't run off without me. Ever." He finishes, eyes flashing and voice going low and dark.

"John, I'm taller, longer, and unfairly aware of all the tender places on a human body, nothing about this fight would be fair." Sherlock says haughtily, and John grins, wide, wicked, and _dangerous_ , and for the first time in a long time Sherlock wishes he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

"Try me." John growls out, and Sherlock steps forward, circling as John turns in place to keep Sherlock in his sights. 

After a few moments, Sherlock pounces, he feints high and goes low, aiming for John's centre of gravity, but John catches his wrist, spins him bodily and tugs his arm up between his shoulder blades, putting enough strain on his arm to just _barely_ hurt, but not actually damage. Just showing Sherlock what _could_ happen if he isn't more careful. 

John sweeps his leg, and Sherlock falls to his knees, and when John applies pressure to the wrist between his fingers, Sherlock crumples to the ground, face down with John over him, sat straddled across back. John leans forward, and puts his lips to Sherlock's ear.

"I win." He growls out, and dear god the man isn't even _winded_ , and if Sherlock wasn't aroused before he absolutely is now. He waits, taking slow, purposely steady breaths, hoping he can get to his room before John notices just how hard he is. He squirms slightly, wondering what's taking John so long to let him up.

"Are you hard Sherlock? Did wrestling in the sitting room with the big bad army captain make you all hot and bothered?" He purrs, and Sherlock whines. He presses his forehead to the floor and clamps his mouth shut to hold in the embarrassing mewl that's clawing its way up his throat.

"Do you want me to touch you? You'll have to tell me Sherlock." John whispers, his warm breath fanning over the back of Sherlock's neck, making his curls wisp over his skin and sending a shudder racing down his spine, making his spine arch, and his hips press into the carpet. 

A raw moan pours out of him at the pressure and rough friction of his own pants pressing against the hard heat of his erection, with John at his back asking him if he wants to be touched, to be pleasured.

"I won't put a hand on you unless you ask. You'll have to say the words." He says softly, lips brushing the tender skin of Sherlock's nape as he speaks, and Sherlock nods, head rocking against the floor, body twisting with lust.

"Please." He gasps, and John presses his lips to Sherlock's neck.

"Please what, little prince? What do you want from me?" He taunts gently, intent upon making Sherlock ask for what he wants.

John gets his knees under him, and slides his hands beneath Sherlock, pulling his shirt from his trousers and rucking the whole thing up under Sherlock's arms to pluck at his nipples, making Sherlock gasp and writhe beneath him.

"Oh god John please, _please_ touch me." He begs, and so John does, dragging his hands over Sherlock's soft skin, down the long dip of his spine, and over the soft valleys at his waist, pulling a moan from Sherlock's plush lips. He reaches back around and trails blunt cut fingernails over Sherlock's hips, smirking when Sherlock's hips buck at the sensation.

"I don't know if I should." John says casually. Fingers teasing at the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, then trailing over the placket at their front, just barely brushing against the erection pressing against the zip.

Sherlock gasps, and tries to grind against John's hand, but before he can, it's gone.

"You haven't been very good." John continues, before leaning back in to drag the tip of his tongue up the back of Sherlock's neck, making the young man yelp at the unexpected touch.

Sherlock's skin breaks out in gooseflesh and he tries to thrust against the floor, desperate for any kind of contact, but John simply hitches his hips up with one forearm and holds him there. Sherlock reaches one hand down to take himself in hand, but a low voice lashes out in the dim light of the table side lamp.

"Don't you dare." John orders, and Sherlock whimpers, aroused beyond what he thought was possible, gripping his hands in the carpet and hanging onto his sanity by his _fingernails_.

"John, _please_." He tries again, and he's never begged for anything before in his _life_ but he will beg for John Watson if it means an end to the pressure building so tight he's beginning to _ache_ with it.

"I'm _sorry_." He stresses, and just like that, the bubble of anticipation snaps. John touches him with intent, his free hand making quick work of a Sherlock's belt and trouser buttons, deft fingers manipulating the small discs easily. The sides of the placket sag open, and John tugs the trousers down around Sherlock's thighs, before sitting back on Sherlock's calves and wrenching him up by his shoulders, one arm around his chest and the other stroking lightly over his cock through his pants.

"Are you really?" John asks, and Sherlock nods frantically. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't run off again John I promise I'm _sorry_." He pants, and almost cries out with joy when John tugs his pants down to his trousers and closes his warm, slightly calloused hand around his neglected cock.

John lets go again and Sherlock whimpers in frustration, but then John's hand is in front of his face, and John's lips are on his shoulder.

"Lick." Is the only word the man says, and it's soft. Sweet like sugar, and Sherlock can't reconcile the tone with the strong arm wrapped roughly around him, or the tight coil of pleasure seated and waiting at the base of his spine. 

Sherlock sticks his tongue out, laves it over the palm and fingers before him, too high strung to be smug at the low groan the warm wetness of his tongue drags from John. He simply licks, gets it as wet as he can, loses himself in the task until John pulls his hand away and wraps it back around his cock.

"Oh!" He gasps, tossing his head back, hips bucking into the tight ring John's made with his fist.

"That's it, go on. Fuck my hand Sherlock, nice and hard." John breathes into his skin, and Sherlock does, hips bucking jerkily as he uses John's hand in an unabashed quest for his own pleasure. His eyes roll back, and he's panting and moaning, head rocking on John's shoulder as he thrusts over and over into John's fist.

"Please John please, I'll be good, I'll be good, just _please_." He begs, and God he never knew it could be this _good_. Never knew how different and _not boring_ it could be to have someone else's hands on him, dragging him along a razors edge, keeping him perfectly balanced until he's positively _incoherent_ with want.

"If we have to have this conversation again, the next time... I won't let you come." John says sternly, and then, with a twist of his wrist, and a graze of his teeth along Sherlock's shoulder, he finishes Sherlock off, clamping his arm tight, and holding the young man steady as he thrashes and bucks, screaming out his orgasm to the ceiling, eyes clamped shut, and his long lithe body pulled taut in ecstasy as his cock pulses out thick white streams of come into John's waiting hand.

Sherlock slumps back against John, boneless and sated, and tucks his face into John's neck, breathing in his scent.

John smiles, wipes his hand clean on his jeans, and wraps both arms around the beautiful boy in his arms.

"You alright?" He asks, and Sherlock nods weakly, a dopey grin spreading over his face.

John smiles.

"I really do mean it Sherlock, don't run off without me. If something happened to you, I'd be absolutely devastated." He says softly and Sherlock turns to face him. His clothes are a mess, his face is flushed red, his curls are in wild disarray, and his eyes are shining bright.

He wraps his arms around John and presses in close, tucking himself into John's arms.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I can't promise to never get lost in my head and take off. I _can_ promise to try." He says, and John lets out a deep breath.

"That's more than enough." He says, breath hitching as Sherlock's hand glides down his chest, but just before he can grip John's cock through his jeans, John snags his hand and brings it to his mouth, kissing his palm, and then each of fingertips with a feather-like softness.

"Not this time. That one was for you, just to show you what an orgasm can be like when someone else is doing the giving." John says, and Sherlock frowns, but John smiles, rubbing his thumb over the wrinkle between Sherlock's brows until the young man's face relaxes.

"No worries, for now let's get cleaned up and into bed, it's been a very long day." He continues, and Sherlock sighs and pulls away slightly, but John hangs onto his hand and smiles at him deviously.

"And in the morning, it can be my turn." He says in a low voice, chuckling mischievously when Sherlock flushes pink all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is, the initial breach of sexual contact, I hope you guys liked it!
> 
> Also, my good friend and wonderful beta just finished a fic! It's called [The Choices We Make](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6346753/chapters/14540077) and I am really, truly, _very_ proud of her, so check it out and see if it strikes your fancy! 
> 
> Hope our liked the chapter guys, and I'll see you in two Wednesdays! <3


	10. A Friend in Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans are made, as well as new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Yes I know it's been a long time, but my kid was in the hospital and it put me reeaalllyyy behind in my work. Rest easy though, I haven't forgotten about you guys!
> 
> Always keep up with the tags darlings, as to not be caught off guard or by surprise!
> 
> As always many thanks to my wonderful beta [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for keeping me motivated and for reading whenever I added so much as a paragraph. For being wonderful, and excited, and generally a very lovely person. You're amazing love.
> 
> All mistakes are my own! 
> 
> I'm not even going to mention italics this time, lol
> 
> Enjoy!

When John wakes the next morning, it's to the warm weight of Sherlock pressed against his side, one long leg thrown over John's hips, his lean arms tucked beneath his chin, and the swirling galaxies of his eyes peering up at John from John's chest where his head is resting.

John smiles down at him, and cards his fingers through Sherlock's sleep mussed curls, tousling the already chaotic mass, and grinning when Sherlock leans into the touch and nearly purrs in contentment.

Those beautiful verdigris eyes flash open, having closed as John stroked his hair and a smirk crawls across Sherlock's face.

"It's morning." He says mischievously and John's brow furrows in uncertainty until Sherlock finishes.

"Your turn." He says, eyes sparkling and gleaming happily and he frees one arm and slips one large, graceful hand beneath the covers to cup John's morning erection.

John's hand slides down Sherlock's cheek to cup his face, and Sherlock presses his cheek to John's palm, reveling in the warmth of him.

"I owe you an apology." John says softly and Sherlock peers up at him in confusion.

"I was angry, and I should have had better control of myself. I should have made you sigh in bliss long before I ever put my hands to your body with any type of force. I'm sorry Sherlock, and I hope you know that I would never hurt you." He says, and Sherlock smiles at him, then crawls up John's body and leans his face over John's, his dark curls bouncing around his ears.

"I wasn't afraid of you John Watson. Were you angry? Yes, but you never once hurt me. You _wouldn't_ hurt me, of that I'm sure." He says gently, pressing his thumb against the corner of John's mouth until his lips part sweetly.

"I could hurt you." John whispers, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Yes, you could, and to be quite frank John I _like_ it. I like knowing that you could overpower me, that you have enough strength and skill to do it and cause me no harm at all. Why are we having this conversation? Was my erection last night not enough to convince you of my attraction to the more militant side of your personality?" He asks, and John huffs out a laugh.

"Always straight to the point with you, isn't it? Is it really necessary to use all those words just to call me an idiot?" John says, and Sherlock laughs.

"I didn't call you an idiot John, I called you a _worrier_ , which you needn't be because I am perfectly able and willing to tell you if I don't like something you do, all I need from you is to trust that I will do that." He replies and John nods before leaning up and pressing his lips gently to Sherlock's.

"Wonderful. Now, I've been eagerly awaiting some _rather_ spectacular morning sex for just over an hour and I've got to be at work in an hour and a half. Think you can can achieve 'spectacular' before I have to start getting ready doctor Watson?" He asks mischievously and John grins up at him.

"Oh yes." John says, snaking his arms and legs around Sherlock's limbs and flipping them quickly so that Sherlock has to catch his breath when he finds himself suddenly on his back.

"I intend to exceed all your expectations, my sweet little prince." He says in a low, seductive tone that makes Sherlock shiver.

John leans in and presses his lips to the high arch of Sherlock's cheekbone, brushing them up and then down the line of his jaw. It's so soft and so sweet that within moments Sherlock has melted into the mattress.

"Beautiful." John murmurs, and Sherlock can't stop the blush that creeps up his chest to stain his neck rose pink.

"Loveliest boy in all of London, here in my bed, asking for me." He says, speaking into the hollow of Sherlock's throat, before lapping gently at the skin as if to taste the flush beneath it.

John skims a hand up the loose cotton of Sherlock's sleeping shirt, smiling against his skin when his fingers brush the hard pebble of Sherlock's nipple and a gasp bursts forth from the young man's mouth.

"That you ever even looked at me feels like a miracle. I'm almost giddy with it every time I kiss your perfect lips." He says on a sigh, leaning back to tug the vest over Sherlock's head and off his body, tossing it carelessly to the floor.

"Whatever I did to deserve you, I want to do it a million times over, just so I can see you this way anytime I like. Tousled and gorgeous in my sheets, blushing under my hands, preening at my words. Waiting and ready for me to worship at the altar of your body." 

Sherlock bites his lower lip, but his smile won't be hidden, and John leans back in and presses another sweet kiss to his grinning mouth, then drags his questing lips down to Sherlock's chest where he nibbles at the skin in the valley of Sherlock's sternum.

"Lips like Cupid's bow, eyes of the rarest gems, skin like cream and silk, laid in my bed panting out your arousal. How did I get so lucky?" John asks, and Sherlock is so busy dealing with the revelation that he _is_ panting and John has barely touched him, he almost doesn't notice when John dips his tongue into his navel.

Almost.

His body goes still, trying to anticipate the next touch, and John grins against his skin, then drags his lips upward and closes them around Sherlock's peaked nipple dragging a low moan from him.

"Oh god." Sherlock breathes, darting his tongue out to wet his lips as John suckles gently at the sensitive nub before pulling off with a soft smacking sound.

John leans back and strips off his own shirt, and Sherlock finally gets to _see_ him. His eyes dance over John, lingering over the firm muscles of his chest, roving down to the tapered lines of his waist, and sweeping back up and over the broad expanse of his shoulders.

That's when he sees it, _the scar_. Immediately his mind is off and racing, calculating angles and calibers, and positioning. After a moment, he glances up, and sees John watching him warily, trying to gauge his reaction to it, and Sherlock grins.

"Do you have _any_ idea John, how amazingly, wonderfully _not boring_ you are?" He asks, and John beams down at him.

"It doesn't bother you then?" He asks, and Sherlock huffs, then leans up and presses his lips to the pale pink skin of it, lets his tongue slide out and swipe across the uneven terrain of it, and grins when John shudders.

"Bother? No, I'm not bothered at all..." Sherlock trails off and John lets out a short relieved sigh, then leans back in, and presses their bodies together. 

Skin, so much skin. Sherlock clasps his arms around John's neck, closes his eyes and _revels_ in the heat of it all. Let's himself enjoy this closeness to the man above him.

John's fingers drag down Sherlock's sides, the tips of them calloused enough that they don't tickle or annoy, and the young man sighs as those fingers dip in and out of the divots between his ribs, grazing gently over his skin and setting his nerves alight.

They tap at Sherlock's hipbone, a question that Sherlock wouldn't have understood, but his body answers for him and before he can process the inquiry his feet are planted against the mattress and he's lifting his hips, allowing John to drag his pyjama bottoms and pants down and off, where they get lost in the jumble of body warm blankets.

John crawls up the bed, leaving Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock watches him with curiosity as John rummages through the nightstand drawer and his eyes widen when he sees the small black bottle and two condoms in John's hand when he shuts it.

"No, not that. Not yet, and not now." John says, catching Sherlock's hand and pressing a sweet kiss to his fingertips.

John pulls off his own bottoms, his erection swaying heavily once freed from its cotton prison. He sidles back up the bed and throws a leg over Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock can't help himself. He reaches down, almost entranced, and catches John's cock in his hand, eyes flicking up to John's face in concern when John hisses at the sensation. 

He finds no need for concern. John's eyes are closed, and his chin is resting against his chest, pulse pounding at his neck, and Sherlock can't help but smile, big and bright, because this is all for _him_. John's entire circulatory system has redirected itself, his heart is beating faster, his nerves more sensitive to touch and it's all for _Sherlock_. 

Sherlock tests the weight of it in his palm, wraps his fingers around the shaft and marvels at the thickness and length. He's itching to taste, to swipe his tongue over the tip and take in the flavor of him, the essence of John Watson, but he knows John has a different idea for this morning, and for now, he's content to let John lead.

He twists his wrist and smirks devilishly when John's hips jerk and his cock press through the tight glove of Sherlock's fist.

"Think that's funny, do you?" John asks, eyes now open and peering down at Sherlock, who gives him a small, unapologetic shrug while his eyes gleam in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

John pats his hand down on the mattress for the condoms, trails a single finger down the slender length of Sherlock's pretty pink cock, then opens the small foil packet, and rolls it down over him.

He tears the other one free, gets himself covered as well, then plucks up the lube and pours a generous amount into his hand. He reaches down and smears the lube over Sherlock's cock, grinning rapaciously when Sherlock gasps at the cool, slick touch.

"Still think it's funny?" John asks, and Sherlock shakes his head, the muscles in his stomach clenching and shifting, his hips rolling forward as John strokes him gently.

John leans back on his knees, lays his hand flat against Sherlock's throbbing length, and presses down, making Sherlock gasp and buck up into his palm.

"No, I didn't think you would." John teases with a sweet smile, but then his face relaxes and he's staring down at Sherlock, as if he's in awe.

"God Sherlock you're perfect." He breathes reverently, lifting his hand, and placing it just off to the side of Sherlock's pelvis to still his wildly thrusting hips.

John dives back down for another kiss, drinking from Sherlock's mouth like a man dying of thirst. Sherlock wraps his arms back around John's neck and moans into the kiss, surprised by John's sudden tenacity.

He gets an even bigger surprise when John's cock presses against his own, the two of them slotting together perfectly in the slick heat between them.

"Oh my god, John." Sherlock gasps, wrenching his mouth away from John's devastating kisses to gulp down lungfuls of precious oxygen.

John doesn't answer, instead he presses his mouth to any bit of Sherlock's skin that he can, then reaches one hand down and wraps it around both their cocks, smirking around the pebbled nipple in his mouth when Sherlock moans long and loud from deep inside his chest.

"Oh _god_." Sherlock groans, his head thrashing side to side on the pillow as his body overloads on pleasure, his imminent orgasm making his balls draw up tight to his body and his hips buck wildly into the tight ring of John's hand, with the warm, hard, slickness of John's cock pressed against his own making him _ache_ with the want to truly _feel_ him. 

"I'm going to come." Sherlock breathes, throat and mouth dry from gasping out his arousal. 

John presses his mouth to Sherlock's ear.

"One day soon, telling me that you're going to come won't be enough anymore. You'll have to _ask_ me for it. Depending on my mood I may just make you _beg_ me for your pleasure sweetheart. I'll teach you how to hold on until you nearly cry with how badly you want it. Would you like that Sherlock? Would you like to be my good boy and beg Daddy to let you come? Do you want to be my very own sweet little slut?" He pants into Sherlock's ear, his hips never stilling, his hand never stopping, and Sherlock can't take anymore. 

"Oh!" He gasps quietly as he comes, his legs clamping down around John's hips and his nails scoring long red lines down John's back.

John nips at the skin of Sherlock's neck gently, presses a soft kiss there as if to soothe the small hurt, and pumps his hips into his own hand even harder than before. He groans roughly, his thighs slapping loudly against Sherlock's sweat slick skin, and just as Sherlock begins to whimper with overstimulation, John pulls away, tosses his head back, and comes, his body slick with sweat and gleaming golden in the muted sunlight.

He falls off to one side of Sherlock, who is panting, eyes closed as he tries to catch his breath.

"Spectacular enough for you?" John asks, and Sherlock can _hear_ the smug grin he's wearing in the taunting tone of his voice.

Sherlock groans and reaches over, grabbing up a pillow and tossing it at John with a precision John can only admire as the pillow smacks him bang on in the face.

When he pushes it away, Sherlock is turned in his direction, messy curls plastered to his temples with sweat, and a soft smile on his lips.

"Better than." He says shyly, peeking up at John through long dark lashes, and John can't help but to grin back at him, before his eyes flick up to the clock behind Sherlock.

"Thirty minutes and counting if you're going to be on time." He says, laughing when Sherlock jumps up out of bed, the forgotten condom slipping from his soft and sated cock, and slapping the floor with a wet _splat_.

Sherlock huffs, rolls his eyes, and grabs a few tissues to clean up the mess, then races into John's bathroom to take the quickest shower of his life.

He grins wide and happy the entire time. 

And when he steps out of the shower to find a perfectly pressed suit, all his lotions, and his toothbrush from the guest loo laid out on John's bathroom counters, his grin somehow manages to only get wider.

**********

John steps out of the Indian restaurant with a smile, his arms laden down with large bags of food. He steps up to the kerb to flag a taxi, but just moments after he comes into view of the street, a black town car pulls directly in front of him, and the back window rolls silently down.

"Doctor Watson, allow me to provide your transportation home." 

The voice is posh and proper, cloaked in formality, and John sighs as he realizes he'll have to accept the ride home from Mycroft who somehow knew exactly where he was without asking.

The back door swings open, and John rolls his eyes. 

"Family full of bloody drama queens." He thinks with a sigh and ducks into the car.

"Mr. Holmes." He says after a full two minutes of silence as the car makes its way through London's streets.

"Doctor Watson." Mycroft replies.

John frowns.

"While I appreciate the extremely creepy and unnecessarily dramatic pick up from my undisclosed location, I have to assume you want more from this meeting than to give me a silent shovel talk." John says in an easy tone, leaning back against the seat and holding Mycroft's gaze comfortably.

John sees the a small twitch at the corner of Mycroft's mouth before the man reaches into his inside breast pocket, retrieves his cell phone, and peers down at it. He taps out something quickly then replaces the phone and looks across at John with a put upon sigh.

"I abhor texting." He says, and John chuckles.

"How do you communicate with Sherlock then? I've never known him to talk on the phone unless there's a particularly interesting murder involved." John replies, and Mycroft inclined his head once, too posh to do anything so plebeian as nod.

"Whom else do you imagine I would wish to speak to badly enough to respond to a text?" Mycroft asks, and John grins.

"You love your brother enough to do much more than lower yourself to texting, I'm sure." He says jovially.

"Yes I do." Mycroft says in a low easy tone, and John feels threatened and reassured all at once. 

"Did you have something you actually wanted to say, or are you just going to toss veiled threats my way the entire ride?" John asks calmly, and this time Mycroft actually smiles at him.

"I never do anything with a single motive Doctor Watson, I'm an avid supporter of _multitasking._ " He responds primly and John laughs, long and open.

"Alright then, so what else did you want to tell me besides _'hurt my brother and they'll never find you.'_?" John asks, and Mycroft crosses his legs at the ankles and rests his hands gracefully in his lap.

"Sherlock's birthday is in exactly three weeks, and as his last few were either spent alone or under heavy influence, I'm going to do my best to make it a memorable occasion. I thought it only fair I offer you the opportunity to be involved." He says, and John smiles at him.

"You want me to help plan your baby brother's birthday party?" He asks around a grin, and Mycroft rolls his eyes in a move so reminiscent of Sherlock that he can't help but to grin wider.

"If you should be so inclined." Mycroft replies.

"Absolutely." John says without a moment's hesitation.

"Actually, I have an idea." He says, and here Mycroft smiles and leans in.

"What did you have in mind?"

**********

John walks through the door of the flat and finds Sherlock on the sofa tapping away at the keys of his laptop.

Sherlock stands and comes over to him, stopping a few steps away before his eyes narrow.

"You've been with Mycroft." He says, and John nods, stepping by Sherlock to unload the bags onto the counter.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?" Sherlock asks, eyes narrowed in annoyance.

"No." John says simply.

"He mostly just wanted to give me the whole _"Hurt my brother and there won't be anything left of you to find."_ spiel." John says with a careless shrug, and Sherlock lets out a relieved breath.

"Ah. Well, that's good then." Sherlock says, seating himself at the island and pulling a large piece of naan from one of the bags before tearing off a small bit and nibbling at the corner.

John looks over at him in confusion.

"How is that good?" He asks, and Sherlock grins at him.

"If he really didn't like you, he would have had you quietly relocated or even more quietly killed. That you're here feeding me too many carbohydrates is yet another good sign." Sherlock explains and John shakes his head and chuckles lightly.

"Anyone in your family _not_ prone to drama?" He asks, and Sherlock laughs.

"No." he answers succinctly, and John scoops a bit of chicken tikka up on his own bit of naan before taking a bite, shoulders shaking with laughter, eyes twinkling with mirth.

He sets his food down on a napkin and rounds the table, brushes those wild curls back from Sherlock's head and presses his lips gently to the heart shaped bow of those perfect lips.

"I really do love coming home to you." He says softly, cupping Sherlock's face in one hand and leaning in again for another kiss.

A key scraping in the lock makes then jump apart, and Sherlock looks over at John, relaxing at the happy smile on John's face.

The door opens, and a small elderly woman dressed in purple and holding a large tray of still warm chocolate biscuits bustles into the flat.

"Whoo hoo!" The woman calls out, peeking her head inside.

"Oh, there you are John. I feel like it's been _ages_." She says in a gentle voice.

"Oh, and you've got company! So wonderful to see you getting out there again darling. You're much too handsome to be so alone." She says, and Sherlock snorts.

"Mrs. Hudson, this is Sherlock. Sherlock, this is Mrs. Hudson. She and her husband own the building." 

Sherlock scans her, his eyes go wide, and he hurries over to her side.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it. You can stay the night here, and he'll be gone by the morning." He says gently.

Mrs. Hudson blinks up at him, eyes going watery and John's brow furrows in confusion before smoothing in understanding when Sherlock tugs back the sleeves of her jumper to reveal dark, hand shaped bruises around her wrists and arms.

"Mrs. Hudson..." John breathes.

"I... Well, I never..." She titters, trying to blink back the sudden tears.

"No." Sherlock says, and they both stare up at him.

"You don't have to explain, you don't have to relive or recount. Just... eat some food, take one of the spare rooms, and know that come morning, the situation will be... _rectified_." Sherlock growls out.

He steals a biscuit from her tray and takes a large bite then flops down on the sofa and starts tapping furiously away at the keys of his phone.

"Mrs. Hudson, I am so _so_ sorry. I had no idea, and I certainly woul..." John starts, but Mrs. Hudson cuts him off.

"Can he really fix it?" She asks, and John nods.

"Yes. Yes he can." He responds seriously, and Mrs. Hudson lets out a long breath.

"Good. Then let him. Now let's eat... I'm suddenly starved." She says brightly.

An hour and a bottle of John's best scotch finds the three of them seated around the island, laughing as Mrs. Hudson tells story after story of her young life.

"I was quite the looker in my day." She says matter of factly, swirling the amber liquid in her glass.

"My best friend and I used to dance at this club. It was all very underground of course. Quite literally so, actually. Right there beneath the Chinese restaurant. Made a killing in tips back then." She says with a wistful sigh, and Sherlock laughs.

"Mrs. Hudson, I think you may shun normality even harder than I do." He says with a slight slur, leaning forward onto his elbows on the counter.

"Oh, boo. Who wants to be normal? Normal is _boring_." She says with a very unladylike sneer.

"I like you." Sherlock responds, then reaches out and grabs one of the chocolate biscuits she brought with her and takes a large bite.

"Have I mentioned that I like you?" He says around a large bite, and Mrs. Hudson smiles softly over at him.

"I like you too dear." She replies, and Sherlock stops, swallows his mouthful, and offers her a small smile, just a quirk of his lips, but it's enough to make her grasp his hand over the island, eyes brimming with tears.

"I know you don't know me very well, and I can't imagine why you want to help me, but thank you Sherlock Holmes. If there's ever anything I can do for you, anything at _all_ you just give me a call, yes?" She asks, and Sherlock nods. 

"Thank you." He says, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

"And as to why I want to help? I don't like bullies." He says, face pinched and serious.

Mrs. Hudson stands and makes her way around the island, catching Sherlock off guard with a warm, comforting hug.

She turns and hugs John, who smiles at her as she steps away.

"Alright boys, I'm going to sleep. It's been quite a day for me." She says, and Sherlock nods, then picks up the rest of his biscuit and nibbles at it as John walks her to her room.

A few moments later, John returns.

"So, what's the _real_ reason you're so adamant about this, and what exactly are you going to do? What are you planning Sherlock?" He asks, and Sherlock takes his phone from his pocket, opens to Mycroft's text thread and passes it to John.

> _Mrs. Hudson is having problems of a corporeal nature with her husband." -SH_

> _Consider the problem rectified. All will be well by morning._

> _Divorce? -SH_

> _Divorce is so messy. I think widow is a much less _convoluted_ title._

John hands the phone back to Sherlock, eyes narrowed and face drawn.

"I can't decide if I'm upset or not." He says eventually, and Sherlock snorts disgustedly.

"Not. That man has been beating her for decades. Don't waste your pity." He says, slipping from his seat and making his way to John's bedroom, not even considering the idea that he has his own.

John trails behind him, eyes roving over the long pale sweep of Sherlock's back, and the deep well of his spine as Sherlock pulls off his clothes for bed.

John strips down to his pants as well, and hey crawl into bed, cuddling together, Sherlock's back to John's front. They lie in silence for a long moment, John's arms wrapped around Sherlock's lithe form, their breathing synced and their beating hearts pressed against each other, then Sherlock begins to speak.

"I had a sister. We were the best of friends, the three of us. Mycroft, the eldest, kept us out of trouble. I, the bratty youngest, always found the trouble he tried so hard to keep us out of. Sherrinford though, the middle child, she was pure sunlight. We'd spend whole days lying on our backs in the garden staring up at the sky, and watching the bees float lazily about mummy's roses." He stops, and John holds him a bit tighter, drawing him in closer and tangling their legs so there's nothing like space between them.

"When she was 18, I was 16 and had just gone off to university. My grandfather promised her hand to one of his friends. It was a business deal. The dirty old bastard gets a young and beautiful wife and the Holmes name is granted more wealth and power, but Sherrinford refused. She said never marry for anything less than true love, and in his anger at her refusal, he beat her into a coma she never woke from." John feels warm fluid splash against the forearm under Sherlock's neck and he tugs, turning the young man to him and pressing that beautiful face to chest.

"Your father didn't do anything?" John asks on a whisper, and Sherlock nods, pulls away with glinting, ferocious eyes.

"Why do you think grandfather is no longer alive? He died very peacefully in his sleep 4 days after Sherrinford. The guilt, it killed him. At least, that's what father told everyone. He never bothered lying to Mycroft and I because he knew it was futile. I won't tell you how though, at least that way you maintain plausible deniability." He says, before tucking his head back under John's neck and twining their legs together again.

"Finding out she was gone was what drove me to drugs, and I owe my life to Mycroft for getting me clean despite my best attempts thwart any help he provided. He says he refused to see such a brilliant mind wasted, but what he means is that he couldn't bear to lose his last sibling." Sherlock mumbles into John's skin.

"Thank you for telling me Sherlock. I'll never speak a word of any of this darling." John says simply, and Sherlock sighs and cuddles in closer.

"I know you won't. That's why I told you." He replies, then he presses his skin to John's, closes his eyes, and let's sleep come.

John feels his breathing slow, and his eyes go heavy, so he presses a soft kiss to Sherlock's hair, and follows him into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual tags: Frottage, dirty talk (including slight name calling)
> 
> Also, that wonderful woman up there in the beginning notes? My awesome beta? Well, she's writing a fic called [Undone](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8198299/chapters/18781495) and it is AMAZING!!! If you like strong, sexy, confident, bamf!John you should absolutely give it a try! <3


	11. Le Petit Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bad news...
> 
> And then very very good news

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter was really, honestly and truly like pulling the most painful teeth. More than a few times I almost gave up on the whole story but my wonderful friend and beta [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) kept me motivated and kept my head above the water on the days when motivation failed me at every turn and words would not form on the page. You are absolutely indispensable darling, and this story would not be what it is without you. Thank you so so much.
> 
> All mistakes are completely mine.
> 
> Enjoy guys!

Sherlock walks through the sliding doors of Bart's, and flags a cab, his mind twisting and turning every which way, his stomach burning with rage and churning with humiliation and hurt, because John Watson, _his_ John Watson, is having an affair.

He's been over it all in his mind more times than he's willing to say aloud, and even though he has absolutely _no_ concrete evidence, the only conclusion he can draw for John's distance these past few weeks is that John has found another lover and is waiting until he can situate Sherlock elsewhere to bring it up. 

Sherlock stares blankly out of the taxi window not seeing the beautiful streets of his beloved London, but instead the suspiciously well hoovered carpets of their flat, and the second spare bedroom that suddenly has a fingerprint lock, the computer that John's changing the password to every day, and the smell of lemon cleaner so overpowering no other smell could possibly linger behind it.

Sherlock lines up all the details in his mind yet again, doing his level best to make them fit in a way that means John hasn't betrayed him, and comes up with nothing once more.

His eyes fill, and he blinks back the tears, refusing to allow them to fall. He will _not_ cry in the bloody taxi. He will at _least_ make it home and into his bedroom before he weeps. 

_His bedroom_. The thought makes him cringe. Living in that home attempting to pretend he doesn't know what's going on. Subtlety has never been one of his strong suits, and he decides there and then that he's leaving. He's going to pack enough of his things to stay with Mycroft for a few weeks until he can find his own flat. 

The cab pulls up to the kerb in front of the building and Sherlock steps out, checking his phone to see if John has even texted.

Nothing. On his _birthday_ , of all days. True, he never told John that it was his birthday today, mostly because he doesn't like to make a big production of it, but John _always_ texts him, and today, on the one day Sherlock needed it most, there's been nothing but silence.

He looks up, realizing he's at the door to the flat, and shakes his head to clear it, trying to remember the lift ride up, and the walk to the door, but he's been so preoccupied inside his own head that he can't recall any of it. He takes a deep breath and slips his key in the lock, praying John will be out and he'll have some time alone to get his things together so he doesn't have to see the look of cautious relief on John's face when he tells him he's leaving.

He should have known, someone like John couldn't _possibly_ stay interested in someone like him for too long.

He lifts his chin and pushes the door open, then stops.

There, just on the other side of the door, is John, dressed in dark jeans and a blue and white striped jumper that shows off the breadth of his shoulders and the slim taper of his waist. His hair is combed perfectly, gleaming golden in the overhead lights, and he's holding a large black jewelers box.

"Happy birthday, love." John says softly and Sherlock almost falls over. His knees literally go weak and he has to clutch the doorframe to remain upright because this, _this_ is what John has been hiding. Not a secret lover, but his love for Sherlock, and whatever birthday surprise he's been cooking up.

"John, I thought..." he starts, and he can't finish. 

"Yes, I know. And we will be having a nice long chat about how easy it was to make you believe that I would do that to you. But for now, would you come here please?" John asks, and Sherlock steps in close, swaying toward the man, toward the warmth of wonderful _perfect_ John who is completely incapable of such stark betrayal.

John smiles up at him, eyes bright and excited.

"I have something for you." He says, holding up the jewelry case. It's large and wide and flat, and Sherlock suspects it's some sort of collar. Something John thought he would like, but that Sherlock secretly balks at. He supposes he could wear it for John, in private, even if the idea of being collared like a dog puts him off.

There's not much he wouldn't do for John Watson.

John lifts the lid, and Sherlock gasps. There, nestled in midnight blue velvet, is nothing so common as a collar.

John has bought him a _[crown](http://221bestillmyheart.tumblr.com/post/153594436520/the-crown)_.

A delicate gold and silver circlet with a large purple diamond set right there in front. He reaches out and traces a long finger over the sloping, curving lines of it.

"Every prince needs a crown." John says quietly, and Sherlock rocks forward, buries his face in John's neck and just _breathes_.

John cradles the back of his neck in one sturdy hand, and Sherlock can feel the smile on his lips and the soft rasp of his beard when John presses a sweet kiss to his jaw.

"So you like it then?" John asks, and Sherlock just... _falls_. He sinks to his knees and bows his head, hands laid gracefully over his lap, the very picture of submission. 

John takes the gesture for the assent it is, and lifts the crown gently, places it upon Sherlock's head, and threads his mahogany curls through the sweeping loops.

"There. Perfect." John says, then cups Sherlock's face in one hand.

Sherlock blinks up at him, and the implication of his position washes over him, making him scramble to get to his feet but John holds him steady.

"You may be on your knees before me love, but you will never be beneath me. Your desire to submit to me doesn't make you weak, it makes you _mine_." He says in a low voice, and Sherlock's body goes lax, his head resting against John's hip, and his arms coming up to wrap around John's waist.

"Yours." He breathes.

"There." John says gently, brushing Sherlock's curls softly into place.

"Now, up with you." He continues in the same tone, a sweet smile on his lips when Sherlock stands and blushes deeply, unable to meet John's eyes.

John tucks a knuckle under Sherlock's chin and lifts, catches his eyes and smiles before stroking that same knuckle over the sharp edge of Sherlock's cheekbone. 

"Remember, head up. You don't bow." John says, and Sherlock nods before ducking his head, giving John a quick and regal bow.

"I bow to the King." He breathes, and it's so low John only just barely hears him. 

But John _does_ hear him.

"Such a sweet boy." John says with a smile, tucking a dark curl behind Sherlock's ear. 

Just as John's hand falls away from Sherlock's face, the front door swings open silently, and Mycroft glides through.

"Happy Birthday, dearest brother." He says with a slight inclination of his head.

Sherlock huffs out a laugh.

"You meddling bastard, you trained him on how to fool me." Sherlock says, the smile on his face belying the vitriol in his words.

"Yes well, we couldn't have you figuring it all out before we even managed to finish." Mycroft responds, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Wonderful choice of diadem John. It suits him." Mycroft continues and John nods his thanks.

"I think so too." John answers, before turning back to Sherlock.

"We have a gift for you. We worked on it together, and well, we hope you like it."

John takes Sherlock's hand, and together, the three of them make their way down the hall. He takes Sherlock's thumb, and presses it to the small black fingerprint scanner next to the lock and the door clicks open near silently.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasps slightly after John pushes the door open.

He takes a dreamy step forward, eyes flitting this way and that taking in his brand new laboratory.

Everything. It has _everything_. The lab in his home is better equipped than the lab at Bart's and he traces his fingers over gleaming blacktop tables, walking through and taking it all in.

"This is for me?" He asks, voice barely more than a whisper.

"Well it isn't for me." John quips as Mycroft steps forward and claps a hand to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Enjoy it, Lockie." He says quietly, and Sherlock turns and grins at him. It's wide and honest and _happy_ , and Mycroft takes a mental snapshot of his younger brothers' beaming, carefree face. He hasn't seen Sherlock so unguarded since the summer he returned from his first term at Harrow.

"Thank you My." Sherlock says in the same, hushed tones as his brother. 

He turns to face John.

"You I'll thank later." He says with a quick wink, to which John responds with a polite smile and a wicked gleam in his eyes. 

Sherlock's pulse races in his throat, and a faint flush stains his cheeks and neck as he turns away and makes his way over to a glass front cabinet full of every type of chemical he could ever possibly need. He's almost giddy with the amount of acid he sees.

John watches happily as Sherlock explores.

"There's a large chest freezer over there, and a refrigerator on this side. _Nothing_ goes in the food refrigerator Sherlock. Not one single thing." John says sternly and Sherlock nods vigorously.

Just as Sherlock moves to open the freezer, there's a knock on the door.

Sherlock's brow creases in confusion as John leaves to get it, until a moment later he hears Lestrade's voice.

"Where should I put it?" He hears Greg ask.

"Just there please." John replies before calling out.

"Sherlock, could you come out here for a moment?" 

Sherlock turns and beckons Mycroft to follow, and side by side, they walk out into the kitchen. 

And there, they find Gregory Lestrade with five large cardboard boxes stacked up on the table.

"All open, and all cold. Thought you might like to have something to use your new lab for." He says with a smile, then he steps forward and claps a hand to Sherlock's shoulder. "For the love of God Sherlock _please_ , I'm quite literally _begging_ you to please staple your notes to the corresponding files. It will take me longer to figure out your filing system that it will for you to solve the bloody cases. Save me some time, and you some phone calls, yeah?" He asks sincerely, and Sherlock is so touched, he can't even be bothered to be an arsehole, he just bobs his head up and down, before pulling the closest box toward him and poking through the files.

"Any of these that you solve using your lab, the Met will pay you your regular rate for. Sound good?" He asks, and Sherlock opens his mouth to say yes, that that sounds bloody _wonderful_ , but before he can there's another knock at the door.

John makes his way over and opens the door to find Molly and Mrs. Hudson on the other side, chatting happily. Mrs. Hudson is carrying a large tray covered with a thick white dome, a cake of some sort, Sherlock is sure. Molly has a large gift bag decorated with balloons and streamers and is wearing a bright smile.

"Happy birthday Sherlock!" They say in chorus, breaking out into giggles at their coincidental timing.

They step inside and John takes the tray from Mrs. Hudson and sets it on the island, and turns to see a small smile on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock walks over and leans on the island, eyes glittering happily.

"You tricked me. You actually managed to hide something from me. I don't know whether I should be upset or impressed." He says, with a broad grin on his face.

"Well if you go with 'impressed' you'll likely have a better evening, so let's work with that." John says with a smile, happy just to have made Sherlock happy.

"Mmm." Sherlock hums, opening his mouth to respond and being cut off by Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh Sherlock, you have gifts! Come along and open them dear, then we can have drinks and cake. I don't want to linger too long, I'm sure John has other plans for you two tonight." She says, smiling a little _too_ innocently when Sherlock flushes pink.

Molly laughs and hands Sherlock her bag, from which he lifts a large plastic container. 

"Fingers!" Molly says excitedly. 

"Eight fingers and two thumbs, all from a woman with the absolute worst case of arthritis I've ever seen!" She says animatedly, slowing her speech just enough for Sherlock to pull another small container from the bag. 

"Inflamed appendix. It didn't rupture and I knew you'd like to pick apart the natural toxins." She says happily as Sherlock holds the plastic kitchenware up to the light and examines the organ with twinkling eyes.

"This last one though, I didn't expect. The lady it belonged to donated it to science and I figured 'What's more scientific than letting Sherlock have at it?'" She says as Sherlock plunges his hand into wisps of white crepe paper, searching for the last container as she explains.

"I almost didn't get to keep it, but I told her about you and she said you reminded her of someone special, so she gave me ownership, which I am now turning over to you. It's a-"

"[Lithopaedion](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lithopedion)." Sherlock breathes reverently, and Molly's grin spreads across her face.

"Less than 300 cases in 400 years of medical literature." He continues, while Molly claps her hands happily.

"And now you own one." She says around her smile.

"And now I own one." He repeats, then leans in and presses a quick kiss to her cheek.

"Thank you very much, Molly Hooper." He says, and Molly throws her arms around his shoulders and squeezes him in a tight hug.

"Anything at all for you, Sherlock Holmes." She says, pecking his cheek once more and standing back to make way for the next person and their gift.

Mycroft sets a good sized box down on the table, and Sherlock opens it carefully.

Inside, he finds a very real, very _human_ skull.

He lifts it carefully from the box, and smiles when he sees it. The physical representation of the chemical makeup of caffeine etched into the bone itself.

His brother knows him well.

"You really didn't have to My, after the lab, this is mostly superfluous. I say mostly, because I love it and I'm keeping it anyway." Sherlock says, moving to set it on the table and laughing when John slides a foam plate beneath it.

"No human bones on the table please, we eat here." John says in that polite tone he has when he means every word he's saying. Sherlock clamps down on the hot shiver that rushes over his skin and turns to back to the box to remove the card. 

He reads it aloud then tucks it in the inside breast pocket of his jacket.

"The happiest of birthdays brother dear. -MH"

Later he'll put it somewhere no one will ever find, and the words that actually sit on the card will never be known to anyone other than the two Holmes brothers and one John Watson.

"Mr. Hudson sends his warmest regards. -Mycroft"

Sherlock nods once in his brothers' direction, then makes his way to the mantle, where he sets the skull gently, giving it pride of place.

When he turns back to his friends, John has taken the lid from Mrs. Hudson's cake, and here on the tray, is a large bee shaped honey cake, covered in yellow and black cream cheese frosting. 

"John said you like bees." She says softly and Sherlock rushes across the room to her and engulfs her small, purple cardiganed body in a fierce hug.

"I love bees, and it, very much." He says quietly, for her ears only, giving her another squeeze before he lets her go.

"And it's _honey_ cake." Sherlock says with a happy sigh.

"I do so love honey." He says, gesturing to John to cut him a slice.

John grins.

"Only because it's your birthday, do you get cake instead of dinner. No whining at breakfast in the morning though." He says as he cuts a thick wedge of cake and slides it onto a plate.

Sherlock takes a bite and has to stifle a moan when honey and vanilla meet his palate in perfect proportions.

"Oh god, between the two of you I'm going to gain so much weight very soon." He says around a second mouthful while Mrs. Hudson nods and John smiles.

"Not too much dear, you just won't be quite so thin." She says, patting him gently on his arm.

John cuts cake for everyone, and his brow furrows for a moment when Greg takes two, then smoothes out when he sees the inspector make his way over to a gently flushing Mycroft Holmes.

It seems he's not the only man here enamored with one of the Holmes boys.

He looks over at Sherlock who is already peering back at him with one eyebrow raised and a devilish grin on his face.

Sherlock makes his way over to John, hips swaying and curls bouncing.

"Not just us then?" He asks, and John grins back at him, enjoying watching their friends  
KILL around eating cake and laughing amongst one another.

"Apparently not." He responds, taking Sherlock's hand in his and lifting those long fingers to his lips where he presses a single, sweet kiss.

"Happy birthday love." John says quietly and Sherlock buries his face in John's neck, wraps his arms around John's waist, and takes several long, deep breaths. 

He holds tight to John, drowning in his scent as a John cradles his head gently, thumb tracing the gentle curves and swells of Sherlock's crown.

"Think that's our cue everyone." Greg says with an amused grin in his voice, and John turns to him with a smile.

"You don't have to go, I made a roast dinner." He explains, his free arm winding around Sherlock's hips to keep him close.

"Which I'm sure the two of you will enjoy immensely, but my brother isn't the most _social_ of people and I can imagine he's feeling quite drained by all of this... _interaction_." Mycroft says, and Sherlock's head nods against John's shoulder.

"Right, sorry but we'll have to cut the party a bit short." John says, holding Sherlock a bit tighter as their friends begin to gather their things.

"Detective Inspector, would you care to join me for dinner? You must be hungry." Mycroft says in a low tone, eyes catching Greg's gaze and a small smirk tipping the corner of his mouth when Greg's neck and ears go red.

"Oh, um. Well, yes. Alright." Greg stammers, and Mycroft offers him his arm, making Greg flush even harder, but he takes the arm and lets Mycroft lead him to the door, cheeks burning red. 

"Happy birthday Lockie." Mycroft calls softly, and Sherlock lifts one hand and waves it, refusing to leave his hiding place.

Mrs. Hudson rests a small hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Enjoy your night dear, get some rest, and Happy birthday." She says, then turns to Molly.

"Why don't you come down with me, I'll make you a cuppa and get you something warm to eat." She invites and Molly smiles.

"That sounds lovely, thank you." Molly replies.

"Have a nice night Sherlock, come and see me in the morgue, I'll see if I can't find you some other interesting things to play with." She says and at this Sherlock lifts his head and grins at her, nodding happily before plunging himself back into the crook of John's neck.

"I'll return your tray when the cake is finished Mrs. Hudson." John says, and Mrs. Hudson clucks her tongue.

"Don't worry about it, I'm sure I'll be around to get it." She says warmly, and together, the party files out of the door, calling back last minute birthday wishes and laughing amongst one another.

The door closes, and there is silence.

Sherlock takes another long breath and presses himself deeper into John's arms.

"Come on sweetheart, let's get you cleaned up for bed." John says, and he tugs Sherlock into the bedroom and through to the loo, where he sits Sherlock on the counter while he runs the tap.

As he waits for the water to warm, John turns to Sherlock and begins to release the buttons of his shirt.

"I spent the entire party wondering when these buttons would give up the fight. How the hell haven't they all gone flying?" John asks, running his fingertips over each new inch of exposed skin.

"Bespoke John. These buttons won't be going anywhere, anytime soon." Sherlock replies as John finishes the buttons at his cuffs and pushes the shirt from Sherlock's shoulders.

"So bloody beautiful." John breathes, running his hands over the pale perfection of Sherlock's skin. 

He steps back, pulls Sherlock down from the counter, and undoes his trouser button, and peels him free of both his trousers and pants.

John presses a soft kiss to Sherlock's sternum, tongue flicking out to taste the flush crawling up the young man's chest before he leads him to the shower.

"Go on, into the shower now love." John says sweetly, and Sherlock ducks his head, plucks his crown from his hair, hands it to John, and steps beneath the spray.

Moments later, John steps in behind him, and before Sherlock can start and turn in his direction, he places his hands gently but firmly at Sherlock's hips, not holding him in place but making it known that he'd prefer Sherlock to stay put.

"Let me take care of you." John says sweetly and Sherlock nods his head, letting out a deep sigh of relief when John's arms close around him and the warmth of John's chest is pressed to his back as the warm spray of the water beats down on their skin. 

After a few long moments of content silence John gathers up Sherlock's purple loofah and squirts a generous amount of Sherlock's sandalwood and citrus body wash onto it. 

"Face me." John says quietly and Sherlock turns, eyes sparkling with mischief when John groans at the sight of him, long and pale and perfect, waters sliding over his beautiful body, like a dark haired angel caught out in the rain.

John runs the pouf over his hands, lathering the soap before reaching out and running it over Sherlock's flushed skin, cleansing away the day.

"You are... _unbearably_ lovely." He sighs as he traces the soapy mesh over Sherlock's chest and shoulders, then down and over the flat angles and planes of his belly and hips. 

"Turn." John says simply, and Sherlock does, lifting his face to the water and feeling the muscles in his body relax as John cradles his waist in one hand, and works the lather over his nape, the long lean muscles of his back, and over the pert globes of his arse.

Once Sherlock's body is clean John grabs a bath towel and Sherlock assumes that he means to get them out and dry them off, so he reaches out to turn off the water when John's hand on his wrist stops him. 

He looks over and watches as Kohn folds the towel into a neat rectangle, then drops it onto the floor of the shower.

"Kneel down for me sweetheart." John says, and Sherlock sinks gracefully to his knees, unable to deny how good it feels to be on his knees before this man. To be at the mercy and tender care of John Watson.

He sways forward, resting his head against the hard lines of John's belly, content to let the water flow over his head while John drags surgeons fingers through the wet curls plastered to his skin.

The snap of a cap flipping open makes him blink open his eyes and peer up at John through inky lashes where he watches John pour shampoo into one hand.

Sherlock closes his eyes again, completely unaware of the blissed out smile adorning his face. John smiles gently, reaches out, and begins to massage the soap into Sherlock's hair. 

Sherlock groans long and low at the feeling of those talented fingers dancing over his scalp, and John just continues, scraping blunt cut nails gently over the sensitive skin while Sherlock attempts to fold in on himself to hide his burgeoning arousal.

"No, don't hide from me love. I always want to see exactly what I do to you. I always want to watch your gorgeous body blossom under my touch. God Sherlock how do you not know that? How do you still misunderstand how very much I want you?" John asks, his voice low and cloaked in arousal.

Sherlock stares up at him with big, innocent eyes and John groans, running his hands through slick curls to free them completely of soap.

He squirts a large dollop of conditioner into his palm and massages it into Sherlock's hair.

"You're going to be due for a trim soon. Do you have anyone specific you go to or would you like me to find someone for you?" John asks, and Sherlock blinks up at him, trying to clear the haze of contented lust that's taken him over.

"I, I have a man who cuts my hair, the only man I trust with the task." He replies, and John nods. 

"Make an appointment, and you can put it on my card." John responds and Sherlock's brow furrows.

"I can finance a simple haircut John." He says, and though he manages to keep the sarcasm and annoyance out of his tone, John notices.

"I know you can, and if it really means that much to you, I won't fight you about it, but I like taking care of you Sherlock. I love it really. And if you'll allow me, I'd like to take care of this too." He says, sweeping Sherlock's hair back from his face and letting the water beat the last traces of conditioner from it as she shields the younger mans eyes with his hands.

Sherlock blushes. He can't wrap his mind around the way John always manages to disarm him so easily. He thinks it must be the sincerity that rings in his voice every time he speaks, his genuine desire to make sure that the people close to him have the absolute best that he can provide. Or maybe it's just John being John, and Sherlock understanding that John Watson doesn't know any other way to be.

"Alright, if you insist." Sherlock says with a gentle inclination of his head.

"I do." John replies with a soft smile that Sherlock doesn't even notice he's returning until John reaches out and brushes his thumb over Sherlock's smiling mouth.

"You are absolutely enchanting." John breathes. 

"I'm still waiting to find out what I did to deserve you, my little prince." He continues, and Sherlock ducks his head and leans against John's hip, where he presses a sweet kiss.

"You were yourself." He says quietly, only just barely loud enough to be heard over the roar of the water.

"Nothing else was necessary." He finishes, and John leans down and grips his elbows.

"Alright, up and out, I still have one more gift for you before we get into bed." He declares, and Sherlock peers up at him, before climbing to his feet.

"What is it?" He asks, and John smirks darkly, his grin broadening at Sherlock's wide eyed flush.

John washes himself quickly and efficiently, Sherlock suspects it's a military habit that John's been unable to usurp, but he doesn't mention it, he couldn't speak if he had to. He's pretty sure that watching John Watson soaked with water and slippery with soap has melted his brain.

As if in a trance, he leans in and laps at the water dripping from John's collarbone, only to be stopped by a firm hand in his hair, pulling him gently from his task.

"Greedy little boy." He chides gently, grinning when Sherlock's pupils go wide and his cock twitches at the endearment.

"Not quite yet love, be patient and I'll take care of you." He says, reaching out to cup Sherlock's face gently in his hand.

Sherlock nods, almost embarrassed, but just as he begins to berate himself, John pulls him from the shower, wraps him in a thick, fluffy, _warm_ towel, and settles his crown right back on his head, his wet curls beginning to spring back to life now that they've been toweled off.

Sherlock creams his skin, and slips on a pair of dark purple pants before he folds himself into his purple dressing gown, then sits on the end of the bed and watches John step into pyjama bottoms and a white cotton sleep shirt.

John retrieves yet another small black box from the beside table.

"One last gift for the birthday boy." John says with a mischievous smile, and Sherlock lifts the top to the box and gasps even as he feels his face and neck go hot.

Inside, nestled in black silk, is a small black anal plug, with a dark purple jewel at the base.

"Can we try it?" He asks breathily, and John laughs.

"Not yet darling, I'm not sure how ready you are to be penetrated." He says seriously and Sherlock pouts up at him.

"But John, it's my _birthday_ , and you're a _doctor_!" He whines.

"I want it. _Please_ John?" He asks, and John looks down at the beautiful boy settled there on the end the edge of his bed, wrapped in purple silk with a bejeweled crown on his head... and he can't say no.

He sighs deeply.

"Alright fine. Yes, but we do this my way or not at all. No suggestions Sherlock, the only thing I want to hear from you are moans of pleasure and the word stop if you need, is that clear?" John asks, tone firm and brooking no argument, and Sherlock nods his head vigorously.

"Right then, undress and lie down on your stomach." He commands, and Sherlock opens his mouth to say that he'd rather stay on his back. He'd rather be able to _see_ John, but then he looks up and sees John's face. His mouth snaps closed with a click of his teeth, and he strips out of his gown and pants silently, before climbing up into the bed, and spreading out flat on his belly.

"Good boy. My good, perfect, sweet Sherlock. You listen so well love." John purrs and Sherlock nuzzles deeper into the sheets before letting out a long contented breath.

John drags his fingertips from Sherlock's toes all the way up to his neck, then down his shoulders to his fingers, back up to his shoulders once again, then back down the long line of Sherlock's torso. He sweeps them over Sherlock's plump bottom and back down to his feet to complete the circuit, keeping up a soft litany of praise the entire time.

"Gorgeous, wonderful, clever Sherlock. All grown up and asking for the things he wants. Good boys who use their words get rewards." He says quietly as Sherlock goes completely lax.

"Stunning, you are absolutely stunning sweetheart. Incomprehensibly exquisite. My mind could not fathom you. I have to see you, watch you stretched across my bed, gleaming like a star bathed in moonlight just to believe you're real." And it's so ridiculously poetic that Sherlock wants to huff and roll his eyes and berate John for his innate romanticism, but he _can't_ , because he _loves it_.

A low whimper escapes him, bubbling up and out of his mouth. He can feel the heat of the all over flush that has consumed him, and the mildly embarrassing but inescapably arousing wetness drooling from his hard and aching cock into the dark navy of John's sheets.

"Now, I bought you a new toy to play with, and you begged for it so prettily I just couldn't say no darling, but I need you to listen closely. Are you listening little prince?" John asks softly, and Sherlock nods.

"No no, for this you'll have to use your words darling. Can you do that for me?" John asks, kneading the flesh at Sherlock's shoulders with warm, comforting hands.

"Yes John, in listening." Sherlock responds, and it's halting and a little shaky, but he gets it out.

"Very good Sherlock, you're doing so well love." John encourages, his hands inching down Sherlock's back, working out knots of tension as they make their way steadily lower.

"If this hurts you overmuch, or you don't like it, I need you to stop me immediately darling. Do you think you'll be able to do that?" He asks. 

"Be honest." He tacks on at the end, making sure Sherlock gives the question real thought and not just a fleeting moment of consideration.

"Yes." Sherlock huffs, his hips shifting as he grinds his cock into the mattress with little helpless, unknowing movements.

"Yes yes." He breathes out, pressing his face into the sheets, feeling the hard metal of his crown pressing into the skin of his forehead.

"Please." He whispers, and John presses a soft kiss to his lower back.

"Shhh, relax love. I'll take care of you. " John says, his tongue sweeping out to taste the dip of Sherlock's spine, then the sweet little dimples just above the curve of his delectable arse.

John continues his path downward, and Sherlock's body stills in anticipation even as his mind makes sense of the very thorough washing he got in the shower. 

And then all thought is gone but for John's name.

"John!" He gasps as a wet tongue laps at the furled bud of his hole, twisting around it in tantalizing circles before plunging inside and making Sherlock's back arch. The movement presses his arse up and John seizes the moment, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's thighs and holding him still while he feasts on the gorgeous, moaning boy before him.

"John!" He Sherlock pants, his head rocking against the bed in unadulterated bliss.

"John, John... _Daddy_!" He wails when a well lubed finger slides in beside the tongue that will surely drive him to madness.

He stills with the realization of what he just said, and tries to pull away but John holds him fast.

"Don't be embarrassed baby, I like it. Daddy _loves_ it, yeah? Never be ashamed with me Sherlock, not ever." And with that he leans back in, lapping at the barely stretched hole gripping tight to his finger.

"You're so so tight darling, we'll have to be extra careful, and you certainly won't be taking Daddy inside any time soon. We'll have to work up to that, alright?" John asks, sliding his finger out and then carefully easing it back inside, trying to acclimate Sherlock to the feeling of something inside of him.

He does it again, pulls his finger out to the tip then eases it back inside and Sherlock _moans_ , high and keening when the tip of John's finger 'accidentally' brushes against his prostate. 

John grins, wide and wicked, his smile pressed into the flesh of Sherlock arse, as Sherlock's hips buck at the sensation.

"Did you like that darling boy? Does that make you feel good?" John asks, and Sherlock nods into the sheets, whimpering because he can't get enough friction against his cock and he _needs_ to come.

John nips at the flesh beneath his mouth in rebuke.

"What did I say about using your words Sherlock?" John asks in a low, warning tone and Sherlock groans, licks his lips to wet his dry mouth and tries to pull his thoughts together for long enough to respond.

"Yes yes, oh please yes! _Please_ more?" He begs, and John chuckles darkly.

"Good boy Sherlock, so very good for me." John praises, then pulls his finger from the rhythmic clenching of Sherlock's hole.

He spreads more lube on his fingers, presses his pointer and middle finger close together, one atop the other, and pushes them inside.

Sherlock's breath hitches, and John stills.

"Are you alright Sherlock?" He asks, and Sherlock whines, winding his hips and thrusting his arse up to take John's fingers deeper inside.

"Oh!" He gasps into the sheets. 

"Please, more. Please please more Daddy _please_." Sherlock implores him weakly, that lovely controlled baritone of his wrecked,  
croaky, and stilted with pleasure.

John presses his fingers even deeper, scissors them apart a few times to stretch and prepare him. Then, with a doctors' precision, he twists his wrist and drags the pads of his fingers over Sherlock's prostate dead on.

"Ohhhhhhh my god!" Sherlock screams out, his head lifting up from its hiding place to call out his pleasure to John and the four walls around them that echo his lust back to him.

John pulls his fingers from Sherlock's body, and before Sherlock can do anything like tense up or even catch his _breath_ , a hard, unyielding pressure is gliding slickly and easily inside him. 

The plug isn't large by any standards, it's of a medium length and quite thing, but it presses against Sherlock's prostate with unerring accuracy.

"Oh god." Sherlock hisses, panting as John seats the plug fully.

"Such a pretty picture, all that pale skin, and then the glimmering purple jewel _just_ peeking out at me." John sighs out as Sherlock trembles.

"Turn on your back for me love." John says, and Sherlock moves carefully, trying not to jostle the plug too much so he doesn't come all over himself before John is done with him. 

"And now, in the long tradition of birthdays..." John trails off, and as Sherlock's brow furrows in confusion, John swallows his slender, pretty pink cock down to the hilt, and taps gently at the base of the plug, nudging it against that sweet spot inside him.

Sherlock _screams_.

His body bows away from the bed and his orgasm barrels down upon him and then washes over him with all the force of a tsunami. He moans and thrashes and writhes as John licks and sucks him clean, swallows loudly, then pulls off of him with a filthy slurp.

"You taste amazing Sherlock." John purrs, swiping his tongue over the head of Sherlock's sensitive cock to stifle the uncomfortable feeling of him quickly and efficiently removing the plug, smirking as Sherlock's entire body jumps at the sensation. 

Sherlock pulls John up to him, and in a quick series of movement, he gets John on his back, with Sherlock himself sat astride John's legs, tugging his pyjama bottoms down around his thighs to free his throbbing cock.

Sherlock pats at the bed, scrambling to find the lube John used with him. He locates it, and squeezes out too much into the palm of his hand, then reaches down and pulls at John's cock with long, decadent strokes.

It's the work of mere moments to get John to the edge. He was already most of the way there by the time Sherlock went off like a rocket, and now he's on his back, watching this beautiful dark haired boy with a crown sat atop his curly head, his skin still flushed and his eyes still hazy from his own orgasm, bite at his lips as he focuses all the considerable attention of Sherlock Holmes on getting John off.

John comes so hard his teeth ache.

His body goes taut and for a long moment the world goes white, but then he opens his eyes panting and trying to catch his breath to find Sherlock peeking down at him, dark lashes framing lust dazed eyes. He reaches both arms out for John, who immediately wraps _his_ arms around Sherlock and presses the warm weight of that long lean body against his own, humming contentedly when Sherlock buries his face into John's bearded jaw.

"Thank you, Daddy." He whispers, and John holds him closer.

"Anything at all for you Sherlock. You must know that by now?" John asks, and Sherlock nods.

"I do, but I'm still getting used to it." He says, and John grins.

"We have all the time in the world little one, all the time in the world."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me guys! I know it's been a long time coming, but things have been very very hectic irl lately, but as I said before, never fear because I will NEVER let go of this story, it means to much to me! I hope you enjoyed the chapter! <3


	12. Dark Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A charity ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hope you guys had a wonderful holiday! 
> 
> Before we get into the newest chapter I just have to say WOW! You guys, 10K hits!?!? ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!? I mean it when I say that I honestly never really thought this fic would get out of the hundreds and I am both humbled and amazed by the response I've gotten. There are no words to express how thankful and grateful I am for all your support! You guys are the best!
> 
> As always lots of warm fuzzies and heart eyed emojis to my amazing beta [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for being both unfailingly kind and patient, but endlessly helpful. I really wouldn't be able to do this without your darling!
> 
> All mistakes a definitely mine
> 
> And of course, I use too many italics, lol
> 
> Enjoy lovelies!

Sherlock is in his lab, carefully cutting open the appendix Molly gave him for his birthday, excited to begin extracting and separating all the different toxins available. As he works he considers the 5 large boxes of cold cases Lestrade gave him which are essentially full of easy money, and mulls over the idea of quitting Bart's and becoming a full time detective. With this lab and John at his side, there's nothing at all stopping him.

He's so engrossed in what's he's doing, and his own thoughts that it takes him a moment to realize that John has stepped inside and is leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, smiling down at Sherlock as he works. 

He's wearing a jade green well fitted jumper, and dark jeans.

In short, he's _delicious_ , as always.

"Hello beautiful. I was hoping you'd take a bit of a break and have a little lunch with me? I have something I'd like to talk to you about." He says enigmatically, and he _knows_ Sherlock's curiosity won't let him turn down the offer.

Sherlock sighs, and sets down his scalpel. He takes a quick moment to set his appendix back in the refrigerator, then turns and follows John down the hall and into the kitchen.

He sits just as John sets a pan on the stove to warm and starts making patties from a bowl of mixed and seasoned ground meat.

Cheeseburgers, Sherlock's guilty pleasure.

"A little birdie told me that you like cheeseburgers..." John says with a smirk and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Mycroft." He says with an annoyed huff, but just then, his stomach grumbles loudly and he can't help but laugh along with John.

John drops the patties into the pan and turns back to Sherlock.

"So, I have something I would like for you to do with me , but it's not going to be something you'll enjoy overmuch." John hedges, and Sherlock chuckles as he rounds the island and grabs a bottle of water from the refrigerator. 

He leans against the counter facing John with a smirk on his lips.

"You want me to attend the wounded veterans charity gala as your plus one." And it's a statement, there is no question in his tone.

John chuckles and nods, turning to flip the burgers then finishing the circle to face Sherlock once more. He mouth breaks into a wide grin at the annoyed pout on Sherlock's face.

"I am _really_ not the most sociable person..." He says, and John steps forward to brush a stray curl over his ear.

"If you come, and you manage to mind your manners, I'll give you a reward when we get home." John responds, and his voice is low and sultry. Tempting in a way that Sherlock is unprepared to resist, so before he realizes what's happening, his head is nodding his agreement.

"Yes, fine. Alright." He says huffily and John grins, turning to lay a slice of muenster cheese to each patty, then pouring in a bit of beef both and covering the burgers to steam melt the cheese.

"Perfect. Let's finish lunch, and then we'll go shopping for tuxes." John replies, smirking slightly when Sherlock's eyes light up.

"Stop it." Sherlock says with a chuckle.

"I like to look nice, is that so bad?" He asks, and John drags his gaze over Sherlock's long, lean form.

"No baby, it's not bad." He says wickedly, one eyebrow ticking up when Sherlock flushes.

"It's not bad at all."

*************

The morning of the gala arrives, and John wakes Sherlock by pressing sweet kisses to his face.

"Come on love, up up. We've got just enough time for tea and breakfast before the team gets here." He says and Sherlock's eyes furrow with confusion.

"Team?" He asks in a low, sleep rough tone.

"Yes love. You're making a rather large sacrifice attending this function with me. The least I could do is make it fun for you." John answers, and Sherlock climbs out of bed unwilling to think it through enough to figure out what John means. All he knows at that particular moment is that he is in _desperate_ need of caffeine.

John makes them a simple breakfast of eggs on toast, and slides Sherlock a steaming mug of coffee while he sips at his morning tea.

Sherlock showers and shaves, the whole while grumbling about having to go out and socialize with _normal_ people. 

He creams his skin, wraps himself in his dressing gown, and leaves the loo, only to walk into the sitting room and find 3 men and a woman standing in black trousers and white shirts, wearing gentle smiles.

"Sherlock, this is your style team. Guys, this is Sherlock. He's very important to me and it's very important to _him_ that he looks good tonight, so do your best work, yeah?" John says with a smile, everyone nods and laughs. 

"Sherlock, try not to make anyone cry love, if you can?" John asks softly and Sherlock nibbles at his lip to hide his smile.

"Yes yes, don't deduce the staff to tears. Anything for Captain Watson." He says, tossing John a cheeky grin that flattens a bit when John's shoulders pull back and his chest opens up as he folds his hands behind himself.

He stalks over to Sherlock and puts his mouth to Sherlock's ear. 

"You should be good, if you want your reward..." He trails off, turning back to the styling crew with a happy smile. 

"Let's get started shall we?" He says, and everyone nods, and begins setting up their stations.

Within just a few minutes Sherlock finds himself nude, laid out over a padded leather table, covered with a thin sheet, while he has years worth of tension and knots gently kneaded from his body. 

John walks over and runs his hand through the curls on the back of Sherlock's head, then smiles when the young man groans distractedly.

"Feel good love?" He asks and Sherlock nods.

"Good. Enjoy it darling." John says, and then he turns to have a seat on the sofa. He won't leave the room because he knows Sherlock doesn't do well with strangers, so he settles against the cushions, content to watch Sherlock enjoy himself while he keeps an eyes on his sweet love.

After the massage, the next man steps forward and Sherlock smiles.

"Mr. Roig, how are you?" He asks happily and the man smiles and steps forward to shake his hand.

"I'm wonderful, thanks for asking. How are you Sherlock? You minding those curls well? Using your conditioner?" He asks seriously and Sherlock nods vigorously, his curls bouncing around his ears.

"Good, then this shouldn't take long. Into the kitchen for a wash if you please." He instructs and Sherlock makes his way over, throwing John a mock glare when John chuckles at how easily he moves for Gonçal Roig.

The things his lovely boy will do for his hair clearly know no bounds.

Sherlock has his hair washed, conditioned, and toweled, then a quick trim and he's ready for the next step. 

The final man steps forward. He doesn't say a word, he simply waves Sherlock toward the last chair, and once Sherlock sits, he trims and files his nails into a perfect manicure, then proceeds to make his face up in the most effective "no makeup makeup" look that Sherlock has ever seen. His skin looks flawless, even more so than usual. His eyes have been rimmed lightly with dark khol, making the swirling blues and greens glimmer and shine. Just as the man lifts a brush to apply blush, John calls out to stop him.

"He doesn't need that." John says, grinning wickedly at Sherlock before standing at walking over to him.

"You don't need that, do you love? You blush so easily for me, it really would be a waste of product." He says gently and Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

John turns to face the crew.

"You've all done amazingly well, he looks wonderful." He says as he passes out checks he's careful not to let Sherlock see the amounts of.

He passes the last lady her check.

"If you could wait downstairs at the main door, we'll have our photos done as we leave the building. I'd really appreciate it, and you will be well compensated for your time." He says and she nods, hefting a large black camera bag and following the others out the door and down the hall to the lifts.

"Off into the guest loo with you, I left your tux and a little gift in there for you." John says, and Sherlock skips off happily, smiling at the mirthful sound of John's laughter, to see what it could possibly be. 

A few moments later Sherlock comes out in a pair of small, silk, steel grey pants, and his torso covered in the most _gorgeous_ [body chains](http://221bestillmyheart.tumblr.com/post/154856162075) he's ever seen. It's made like a steel net, and studded with diamonds. Sherlock could tally up its average price all too easily, but he finds he doesn't _want_ to know. He just wants to bask and enjoy, because for the first time since he lost his sister, Sherlock is genuinely, truly _happy_.

The chains slip and slide against his skin, the cool mesh slowly going skin warm and rubbing gently against his already hard nipples. The ends brush up against the base of his cock, driving him slowly insane. 

He looks over at John, and John looks like he might just eat Sherlock alive. The expression makes a slow, evil smile spread across Sherlock's face, and he begins rocking his hips from side to side, an easy, graceful, wavelike motion that almost entrances John.

"Did you know that I used to dance ballet?" He asks, and he spins on one foot, the chains spinning out around him before settling against his skin as he halts, before rolling his body forward and smirking up a John.

"I got a very useful skill set out of it, don't you think?" He asks mischievously, his grin growing even wider when John clears his throat.

John picks up a small black box from the counter, then turns and prowls over to Sherlock, who's grin falters as John makes his way closer.

"I thought you might need a little help tonight, being Daddy's very good boy." He explains in a low, seductive tone.

He peels Sherlock's pants down, leaving them stretched around his thighs, then opens the box just wide enough to remove a small piece of clear rubber. 

John reaches down and grips Sherlock in his hand, and before he can get hard, fits the [soft body chastity cage](https://www.extremerestraints.com/chastity-devices_26/detained-soft-body-chastity-cage_9828.html) around his sweet boys gently plumping cock. 

Sherlock realizes immediately that it'll be impossible to gain an erection with it on, let alone anything so exciting as reaching orgasm. 

He gasps and John gives him a wicked smile then spins him easily in his arms, presses a hand to his shoulders, and bends Sherlock over the back of the sofa.

He takes a slim bottle of lube from his pocket, slicks up two fingers, then lays a forearm over the base of Sherlock's spine, and slowly begins to press a single finger into Sherlock's hot, tight hole.

"You know, "As a doctor, I'm pretty good at a couple of things myself. Finding the prostate for example..." He teases as he slides the his finger right up against Sherlock's sweet spot, relishing the low moan it drags from that long, pale throat.

John pulls his finger almost all of the way out, then pushes back inside with two, stretching him open as his fingers trip over Sherlock's spot on every other thrust until Sherlock is gasping and whining and pressing his caged cock against the back of the sofa.

"Oh!" The young man exclaims when the hard, slick tip of what can only be an [anal plug](http://www.lovense.com/vibrating-butt-plug) presses gently at his opening.

"Now this one is just a little bit bigger than the one you're used to, but I thought the size difference would help keep you focused." John explains, and Sherlock nods his head weakly, pressing his hips back eagerly for more.

John swats him on the arse and Sherlock goes still, gasping and panting as a flush crawls up his chest.

"Stay. Still." He commands, and Sherlock whines at the tone, and the heat flaring over his left arse cheek.

"Again. Please again." He begs, but John ignores his plea.

"Deep breath in." He orders and Sherlock complies.

"Now out." John says, and as Sherlock breathes out, John presses more of the plug inside the tight bud of Sherlock's hole.

"Again, breathe in." John says gently, running a soft hand up Sherlock's spine.

"Now out." He says, and Sherlock let's out a long breath, and this time the entirety of the plug is pressed in until the base of it is settled snugly beneath his balls.

"There." John says softly, as Sherlock tries to catch his breath. Just as his heart is beginning to slow, John brings his hand down against Sherlock's right arse cheek, the sound ringing off the walls and echoing back at them.

"Be good tonight Sherlock." He says before pressing a sweet kiss to each of the dimples that sit just above Sherlock's arse.

"Now, off you go to get dressed love, our car will be here soon." John instructs, and Sherlock stands gingerly, testing his legs and the feel of the new plug before pulling up his pants and strutting off to get dressed, hips swaying and feeling sexier than he ever has before.

Getting dressed is the work of mere minutes, and once he's in his tux and tie he strides out of the room, his purple garnet cufflinks glinting in the hallway lights. As he walks he realizes just how quickly his body has gotten comfortable with the feel of the new plug, and he sways his hips a little harder as he moves, relishing the feel of being full and loving the idea that this _might_ just work. If he can shift his hips a bit anytime he feels like tearing someone to shreds, it should easily drag his focus back to the toy in his arse.

The chains under his shirt slip and slide over his nipples keeping them hard and stimulating him so constantly, he's actually glad for the cock cage. Between the chains and the plug. There's no way he would be able to keep from getting hard all on his own and an erection really would ruin the lines of his bespoke trousers. 

He meets John at the door, but just before he can put his coat on John takes his hand.

"Before we go..." John trails off, pulling yet another small black box from his pocket. He flips it open and reveals a gorgeous tie clip, it's white gold with a small purple garnet and studded across with diamonds. John slides it into place, then beams up at Sherlock who is beaming down at him.

As if he can't help himself, John pulls Sherlock's mouth down to him and kisses him long and slow and hot until Sherlock is panting and flushed and happier than he can ever remember being.

"There, I told you you wouldn't need that blush." He says and Sherlock chuckles and flushes even harder.

John holds out his hand for Sherlock to take.

"Got your breath back?" He asks, and Sherlock threads his fingers through John's with a smile.

"Ready when you are." 

Sherlock folds his coat over his arm and together they make their way downstairs to the car.

In the limousine after their photos Sherlock tries to hold back, but the idiot driver is taking all sorts of odd roads to get them to the gala, and it's going to take at least an extra 20 minutes for them to get there.

"Can you _really_ be this incompetent about something as stupidly easy as driving a car? There is no way you don't know that you're taking the long way around. This is idiocy of proportions even I didn't think the average human capable of." He begins, building up steam. He sees John take his phone from his inside breast pocket but he ignores it in favor of his continuing tirade against the chauffeur.

He opens his mouth to continue and then he almost chokes when the plug in his arse starts _vibrating_.

"Oh god." He whispers and John grins up at him with a wicked gleam in his eye.

"Well then, looks like I've found your off button." John says with a smirk as Sherlock writhes in his seat. 

"All night Sherlock, from any distance. If I hear or see you about to lose it, I will _help_ you." John taps his phone and the vibrations get stronger, dragging a low moan from Sherlock's throat before he can stop it.

They finally arrive in front of the venue hosting the gala and John taps his phone again, stilling the plug, leaving Sherlock panting and gasping for breath.

"So remember that, because there will be no orgasms until we get home, and if I have to use it too many times, there won't be any orgasms tonight at all." John says sweetly, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock's brow.

"Well, none for you." He clarifies with a smirk.

They exit the car and Sherlock swings his coat around his shoulders, making it billow out into the chilly London air.

"You giant drama queen." John says fondly, and Sherlock grins at him.

"You like it." He counters with a raised eyebrow, and John nods.

"Yes. I really do." He says easily, making Sherlock's grin grow even wider.

Once inside, they check their coats and start making their way around the room, John introducing Sherlock to his various friends and acquaintances. 

Sherlock stands in the circle of John's friends and listens to one of them tell the most obviously false story he's ever heard. Just as he's had more than enough of the plebeian nonsense John takes out his phone, and for a single beat of a moment, he wonders what call John could possibly be taking, but brushes the thought aside to better focus on what he's going to say to the twit still telling his over embellished story. He takes a breath and opens his mouth to speak and suddenly, the plug begins buzzing again. 

His breath hitches, and small beads of sweat break out around his hairline as he strains to contain himself and the growling moans clawing at his chest and _begging_ to be released. He takes a deep sip of his champagne, and just when he feels like he'll choke, the plug stops, and he releases a long, relieved breath. 

John smiles sweetly over at him, running a hand up his back as Sherlock does his best not to shake apart.

6 more times. 6 more times John has caught Sherlock about to slip into a tirade and silenced him like a dog on a shock collar. Sherlock's skin has maintained at least a light flush since the first time round, and his cock aches for trying over and over again to get hard against the cage. His nipples are so sensitive the soft silk of his shirt rubbing against them is sending him into a tailspin, and the chains brushing at them and lingering around the base of his cock aren't helping matters in the slightest. 

Sherlock breathes deeply and wonders where all the years of mastery over his transport have gone, because now his body seems to respond only to John Watson's command. 

Just as he's ruminating over that particular question, the coordinator of the nonprofit organization that threw the gala comes over to John. He's a small, extremely well dressed man with dark hair, a posh Irish lilt, and an evil look on his face.

"Jim Moriarty, and who might _you_ be?" He asks, holding his hand out for Sherlock to shake.

Sherlock does and an unpleasant frisson of sensation shivers through him at the cool touch of the man's hand. His eyes are dark and flat, and very blatantly dragging over Sherlock with open lust.

Sherlock knows a psychopath when he sees one. Hell, he identified as one before he learned about sociopathy, and he's all too ready to get away from this man within moments of meeting him. He makes a quick excuse about going to the loo, and steps away from both John and Jim. 

Anything to get away from that horrible little man.

As he makes his way to the restroom he stops by a lady who has had a bit too much to drink, and a man who is all to keen to prey on her drunken state. He eyes the man over and smiles.

"If you so much as touch her, I'll make sure your wife knows that you spend your late nights at work with her sister, and her brother in-law... Prenuptial agreements tend to be conditional upon fidelity, wouldn't want her to take everything now would you?" He whispers in the man's ear.

"A drunken yes is not consent, I'm sure you know that." He continues, and the man nods his head vigorously, both frightened and alarmed at this seemingly random man who knows so much more about him than any stranger has the right to.

Sherlock stalks off to the bathroom and chooses a stall. He closes and locks the cubicle door behind him, then leans his head against the door and tries to pull himself together. 

He hears someone come into the bathroom and ignores them in favor of his own sanity, and trying to relax into the tangled mess of endorphins and lust flowing through him, churning hot and hard in his veins like wet gravel.

The lock on the outside door of the loo clicks, snapping him back into the present moment.

"Sherlock, come out here for a moment love." Calls John's voice and Sherlock breathes out deeply, unlatches the door and steps out to find John leaning against the restroom door smiling in his direction.

"That was very good of you, to stop that man preying on the woman. I just put her in a cab, by the way." John says and Sherlock drops his head, embarrassed to be caught out playing the good samaritan.

He gets lost in his thoughts for a moment and is jerked back into reality with a gasp when the plug in his arse starts buzzing away merrily.

"There you are, lost you for a moment." John says softly and Sherlock let's out the moan that's been stacked up in his chest for _hours_.

"John please, _please_ I _can't_." Sherlock whimpers, head thrashing with the intensity and John watches with his head cocked, earnestly enraptured at the sight.

"It _aches_ , I keep trying to get hard and I can't and it _hurts_." Sherlock continues and a single tear escapes in the wake of his frustrated arousal.

The plug stops immediately and John steps forward to cup Sherlock's face in his hands.

"Are you alright love? We can take the cage off and the plug out of its hurting you. If this isn't fun for you Sherlock, it's over." He says gently and Sherlock pauses, thinking over how much more of this torment he can take, but even as he considers ending it all, a wide, playful grin splits his face.

"I like it." He breathes, and John smiles.

"I thought you might." He replies as he places his hands at Sherlock's waist and turns him to face the mirror.

"Hands at the top of the glass." He instructs and Sherlock does as he's told, dropping his gaze from the reflection of his bright eyes and flushed cheeks as John undoes the placket of his trousers and pulls both them and his pants down around his thighs.

John moves behind him and wraps his arms around Sherlock's body, using one hand to circle the base of his cock and the other to tip his head up.

"Watch." He says in a low seductive voice.

"Watch what I do to you." He continues, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder when a shiver creeps down his spine.

"You're so responsive..." He breathes into Sherlock's neck, peeking around him to watch his face in the mirror.

"Every single touch just winds you up even more." He says, letting his lips graze over the skin of Sherlock's neck.

The hand at Sherlock's chin drops, and moments later, the plug starts up yet again.

Sherlock's head drops as he pants out his arousal.

"Watch." John reminds him, and Sherlock's head snaps up and he watches his body shake apart in John's arms as the plug vibrates against his prostate and his hips wind backward trying for more friction that simply won't be achieved.

His eyes are wide and bright with those same frustrated tears and his lips are red and bitten, his cheeks flushed and his hair swaying around his ears as he tries to contain the trashing to follow John's order.

"Look at how beautiful you are Sherlock, you're _stunning_." John whispers and Sherlock whimpers, his cheeks going even hotter and his eyelids fluttering as he struggles to watch his own face while John drives him mad.

John's free hand slides down, fingers slipping along the base of the plug slick with lube Sherlock doesn't remember hearing him open. He circles those fingers around Sherlock's hole, reapplying lube before he grips the base and gives it a good twist making Sherlock jerk and make an high, embarrassing keening sound as he's battered with more futile pleasure than he knows how to handle.

John squeezes gently at the base of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock's hips grind forward into his hand.

"Oh god, _please_." He begs, and John steps away. The plug goes still yet again and John tugs up Sherlock's pants and trousers before giving him a soft pat to his head and a sweet peck on his lips.

He moves to walk away and Sherlock grabs his arm, grasping at him with frantic fervor.

"Daddy _please_!" He whines, and John just strokes a gentle thumb over the sharp blade of his cheekbone.

"Don't stay in here too long love, or I'll have to remind you to come and find me." He says giving a menacing shake of his phone, and with that, he strolls confidently and just as well put together as he was when they left the flat, out of the loo and back into the party.

Sherlock peers into the mirror at himself, then lifts his head, dabs at his eyes with a hand towel, does a happy little shimmy, and makes his way out of the loo behind his Daddy.

************

When they finally arrive home, Sherlock is so on edge his teeth hurt from all the clenching he's had to do. He stalks off to their bedroom to get out of his tux, and just as he crosses the threshold of the master bedroom he hears John call out to him from the hall.

"Take off the tux, but leave the toys and the chains until I say." He says in a tone that brooks absolutely no argument, and Sherlock groans but nods.

John steps through the door, tugging at the knot of his tie and taking a deep relieved breath. He settles on he bed to watch Sherlock undress, and once Sherlock realizes he has eyes on him, he decides he may as well make a show of it. 

He undoes the buttons of his jacket and let's it slip down his arms, catching it in the bends of his elbows before allowing it to slip lower and catching it on his fingertips.

"Don't want to let it fall, nice things shouldn't be left on the floor." He explains when John smirks up at him at the maneuver.

He tugs his shirt tails out of his trousers and begins working at his buttons, flicking them open one by one, then turning his back to John when he finishes and letting the shirt slide over his arms, baring his shoulders to John's hungry gaze. 

Just as he moves to turn back toward John, music starts up and the plug inside him starts vibrating to the beat of the [song](https://youtu.be/wlXQIotlx3U).

Sherlock gasps, but holds onto his composure, finishing his turn with a gentle sway of his hips that makes John's pupils go wide and dark.

_**I've looked a long time to find you** _

The man sings as Sherlock rolls his hips forward, his body thrumming and heart pounding in his chest as the slow, hypnotic beat vibrates through him at the whim of the plug.

_**I drifted through the universe, just to lay, beside you.** _

He tosses his shirt at John in an imitation of every cheesy scene from a stripper movie he's ever seen, but John catches it from the air and lays it gently beside him, eyes never leaving Sherlock, and Sherlock's body flushes at the attention, skin burning even hotter than it already was.

He undoes the placket of his trousers, and peeks up at John through his lashes and fringe, verdigris eyes swirling with lust and arousal.

_**Anywhere you want me to take you I'll go.** _

Sherlock works his hips from side to side in a move that would impress even the best belly dancer, his open trousers slipping and sliding against his waist as the jewel studded chains covering his torso clink and chime against his skin.

John stands and walks over to Sherlock, moves behind him and places his hands on Sherlock's hips to feel the muscles work beneath his palms. He slips his hands into Sherlock's trousers and carefully works the poor boy's aching, forcibly flaccid cock out of the chastity cage.

Sherlock huffs in relief as he slips free of it, and he leans his head back against John's shoulder, grinding his arse against John's hardening cock in rhythmic motions that make John clamp down on his hips to still their winding movement.

"Don't be naughty Sherlock." John say lowly into Sherlock's ear.

"Be a good boy for Daddy." He says, his hands pressing the chains against Sherlock and leaving gentle impressions of them on his skin.

_**But there's things about me that you just, don't, know.** _

Sherlock's cock starts plumping immediately and Sherlock can literally _feel_ the blood filling out his cock until he's raging hard and rocking his hips against John's unrelenting hold trying fruitlessly to find friction against his sensitive cock.

"God you are so unbelievably gorgeous. The way you move your body is absolutely captivating." John breathes, pressing gentle kisses to Sherlock's skin through the mesh of the chains.

John pushes Sherlock's trousers and pants down around his ankles, and Sherlock steps out of them, kicking them off to the side in unthinking desire. 

John reaches down and around to give Sherlock's cock a long, lazy stroke, chuckling darkly in the young man's ear when Sherlock hisses out his pleasure.

John spins Sherlock in his arms, then lays his scantily clad body out across his bed, reveling in the way Sherlock writhes at the softest touch.

The song ends and John lets the plug go still so that Sherlock can concentrate.

"I told you I'd give you a reward. What would you like darling boy?" John asks, and Sherlock looks up at him with hazy eyes.

"Fuck me." He breathes, and John's body stills. He looks down at Sherlock with indecision in his eyes and Sherlock rolls his hips up toward him, putting his body on lewd display.

"It's all I want." Sherlock says on a low whimper.

"I was _so_ good for you, all night I was good for you." He continues.

"Please John, please fuck me. I want to feel you inside me. I want to be yours in every single possible way. _Please daddy_." Sherlock begs, and John breaks. He falls onto the bed over Sherlock and kisses his mouth soft and sweet and tender and Sherlock sighs into the kiss, wrapping his arms around John's shoulders, secure in the knowledge that he will finally have what he's wanted for so so long.

"Your voice was made for begging Sherlock. You've got this posh, sultry baritone that just _drips_ sex, and then I get you in bed and you whimper for me like a whore who loves their job." John moans against his ear and Sherlock gasps his name.

"John!"

"Is it too much love?" John asks, pulling away so he can see Sherlock's face as he answers.

"No." Sherlock says, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a mischievous grin.

John responds with a slow filthy grin

"Dirty little slut, you _like_ it." he says darkly and Sherlock's body begins to shake beneath his hands.

John combs his fingertips through Sherlock's hair and down his ribs to cup his hip gently.

"Are you sure Sherlock?" He asks, and Sherlock glares up at him.

"Do I look unsure?" He snipes, hips writhing uncontrollably against John's as his body strains for the release he's been denied the entire night long.

John raises a single eyebrow and peers down at Sherlock.

"You should watch your tone love." He says gently and smiles at Sherlock's wide eyed shudder.

"Do you like it, Sherlock?" John asks conversationally as he presses kisses to Sherlock pale neck, nipping gently when Sherlock bares his neck in ecstasy.

Sherlock huffs and peers up at John through wide, confused, lust black eyes.

"Being my little fucktoy?" John asks in that same soft voice.

At this, Sherlock moans long and loud.

"Yes!" He gasps out as John presses a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"You like for Daddy to dress you up all pretty, cover you in diamonds, then fuck you till you're begging?" He asks in that polite tone he has that Sherlock will never be able to hear again without wanting to climb into his lap.

Sherlock flips onto his stomach and raises his arse up in an extremely persuasive presentation.

"Daddy please, please I need-" His words cut off with a choke when John tugs gently at the plug still holding him open.

"I need to come, _please_." He moans, low and needy, pressing his face into the sheets.

John closes his eyes with a rapturous look on his face.

"Yes Sherlock, that. Absolutely that." He says as he lets out a happy sigh.

"Like the most beautiful music." He continues stroking a soothing hand down Sherlock's spine when Sherlock whines.

"Poor darling, you were so far above it all... spent so much time above the all the base urges of the average human, and now look at you. Moaning like a slut at the slightest touch. You spent so long pushing it all down that now you _need_ it, don't you love? Can't go a single day without Daddy's hands on your skin or you start _itching_ for it, don't you?" He asks as reaches beneath Sherlock and pulls gently at his cock with nowhere near enough friction to actually get him off.

John pulls away and walks over to the bedside table, where he plucks out a small black bottle of lube and a condom, but even before he turns, Sherlock is shaking his head no.

"No condoms, I'm tested every three months and I've not been sexually actively since I was a teen. You had yourself tested the morning after our wrestling match in the sitting room. I don't know why you thought I wouldn't see it, but I know that you're just as clean as I am. I want to _feel_ you John, _please_." He begs, looking up at John with imploring eyes.

John stills, he's done a lot in his life but he's never had unprotected sex, but _god_ if he doesn't want to feel Sherlock's tight hole clamped hot and hard around his cock.

John tosses the condom back into the drawer, and climbs back onto the bed between Sherlock's spread legs. He places a hand in the small of Sherlock's back before slowly, gently, _finally_ working the plug out of him.

Sherlock whimpers at the sudden emptiness and John lubes his fingers and presses them inside to soothe him.

"You want me to fill you?" He asks against Sherlock's ear, fingers twisting and playing inside Sherlock's slick, stretched hole.

Sherlock nods his head and John's fingers stop, pull almost all of the way out, catching at the rim and massaging gently, toying with him until Sherlock's desperation pools in his eyes salty and hot.

"Yes." He breathes out, and it's low, but John hears him.

"Good boy." John murmurs and slips his fingers back inside, twisting his wrist and petting gently at Sherlock's prostate in reward.

Sherlock's shriek of pleasure would be heard through the halls had John not paid the extra to have his bedroom soundproofed.

"You want me to make you wet inside? Paint your pretty pink arsehole with my come so you can feel me and remember who you belong to?" He growls filthily into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock moans "God yes. Yes _please._ " He whines, hips rocking back against John's fingers, the tip of his cock dripping precum that smears the sheets as the tip drags the bed with each movement.

"You want to be mine for good?" He asks and Sherlock gasps and nods.

"More than anything." He pants out.

"All mine" John rumbles out, before pressing a soft kiss to the base of Sherlock's neck and lining up his lube slick cock with Sherlock's hot entrance.

"Always mine." He growls as he sinks just the head of himself inside Sherlock's, oh god so _hot_ and _tight_ hole.

"Yes!" Sherlock cries, exaggerating the arch in his back and pushing his arse up toward John, taking another inch with a low moan and a slow, sinuous roll of his hips.

"Fuck." John hisses out as he shuts his eyes, grits his teeth, and does _everything he can_ to hold back until he makes Sherlock come. Until he shows Sherlock how good it can be. What it's supposed to be. And he's man enough to admit that he wants to blow this sweet boy's mind. Wants to be the first man to give this perfect boy more pleasure than he can stand. Wants to be the one no one else can ever measure up to, so that if Sherlock ever leaves him, anyone else he ends up with will be put to the John Watson test and be found lacking.

"I'm going to breed you." John growls in his and Sherlock whimpers.

John doesn't _say_ these kinds of things to him and his body isn't prepared for the random shocks of arousal that linger over his skin and leave him positively _alight_ with how good it all feels.

John angles his hips and the head of his cock scrapes over Sherlock's prostate as he finally sinks all the way in, snapping Sherlock's back into a high arc. 

John grins wickedly down at Sherlock, before dragging his cock slowly from Sherlock's body, his hands at Sherlock's hips to hold him still.

John presses back inside, biting his lip at the hot hold Sherlock's hole has on his cock. 

He brushes his fingers through Sherlock's hair and grips him high around his torso, steadying himself to pull out, and press back inside.

Sherlock groans. This, this slow ruination is nothing like he has ever experienced or could possibly expect, and all he can do is moan into the pillow under his face, dig his nails into the sheets, and pray it never ends.

"Fuck!" He mumbles, and John's hand slips up his skin to cup his chin and lift it from the pillow, dragging Sherlock's body up from the bed into a long curve.

Sherlock's hole opens up even more around him, relaxing into the pleasure of it until John speeds up his thrusts, gripping Sherlock's shoulder with his other hand, and using the strength in his arms to bounce Sherlock on his cock.

And Sherlock Holmes, who makes his living with words, cannot manage to say a single thing except for John's name, chanted in time with each snap of the man's hips.

The sex before somehow seems like a precursor. Like foreplay for this. This mind-blowing onslaught of pleasure that doesn’t slow and only increases in intensity until Sherlock is gasping John's name, a thin sheen of sweat making his skin gleam in the moonlight, as the chains clink and sway against their skin. John doesn't even blink, he just keeps hitting Sherlock in that spot that leaves him choking on his own breath over and over, and Sherlock gladly gives in and allows John to do whatever he wants. If this is how John Watson leads, Sherlock will happily follow.

"You take it so good Sherlock. So so good baby." John moans, and Sherlock _keens_ for him. A long, high, lovely sound that John wishes he could bottle and take out every time Sherlock tries that posh, haughty nonsense with him.

John pulls out and smirks at Sherlock's disappointed groan. 

"Turn over, love. I want to see your gorgeous face when you come for me." John says, grabbing up a pillow from the head of the bed.

Sherlock hesitates, but does, and it's mere moments before John is back inside him, with the extra pillow situated under Sherlock's hips for the best possible angle to drive Sherlock out. Of his. Mind. 

"Please daddy." Sherlock moans out, completely lost in the way John feels inside him. He didn't know it could feel this way. He never knew it could feel this good.

John looks down at him, expression awed and reverent. He takes Sherlock's face in his hands and kisses him, deep and filthy. 

"Again. Again Sherlock." He whispers against that perfect Cupid's bow.

"Daddy." Sherlock whispers and John growls, drives deeper, and harder while Sherlock arches his back and thrashes his head against the pillow in pleasure.

"John!" He chokes out, unable to catch his breath.

"You want to be mine sweetheart? You want to be my pretty little blushing boy?" John huffs out, the muscles in his neck and arms straining and bulging as he holds himself over Sherlock and fucks down into him.

"You still want to be mine now that you understand what it means? What it means to let go and let someone else take charge of your pleasure? Wanking will never suffice again love. This is what you need; to be taken and owned and treasured like the prize you are." And John grips Sherlock's hips to get a better rhythm as he continues to fuck Sherlock senseless.

Sherlock's flush crawls down to his chest, and he nods. 

"Yes?" John asks, he needs to hear the words.

"Yes. _Please yes_. I want to be yours. Only yours." Sherlock gasps out, and the words are thick in his mouth, slurring out on a love-strung tongue.

"Good boy." John breathes, letting go of one of Sherlock's hips to grip his swollen cock.

"One day soon, I'm going to fuck you until you come on my cock with no help at all." John huffs as Sherlock's eyes roll up into his head.

"But for now, you deserve the help, after all, you were very good for me tonight, weren't you Sherlock?" He asks, knowing full well Sherlock couldn't answer if he tried.

"You tried so hard to be a good boy for Daddy, didn't you?" He repeats, and Sherlock's head bounces on his neck, the only response he's capable of, and since John isn't too far from orgasm himself, he accepts it for what it is.

"Come on, little one, come for Daddy." John coaxes, pressing Sherlock's legs back and smiling when Sherlock yelps as his cock brushes Sherlock's spot.

"Is that it love? Is that what's going to make you come all over Daddy's  
cock?" John asks, swiping his thumb through the fluid at the head of Sherlock's cock and Sherlock groans, his upper body jerking up off the bed.

John does it again, and then again, and the last time he does it Sherlock's body stills, his back bows and for a single moment he's just there, body taut with pleasure, suspended on John's straining cock, and then he's coming. Long white ropes spilling from him and painting his chest and belly in a sensuous picture the likes of which John has never seen before.

"Perfect." He breathes, and just as Sherlock's body goes loose and lax, John leans forward onto his forearms and thrusts one, twice, three more times, before he spills inside Sherlock's body, arms wrapped around the young man's torso, face pressed into his neck and he moans out his pleasure.

He takes a moment to catch his breath, unable to move if he wanted to, because Sherlock has wound all his limbs around John's body and seems to be in no hurry at all to let him go.

John softens and slips from Sherlock's body, making Sherlock clutch him even tighter. He reaches one hand up and cards his fingers through lust ruined curls and presses a sweet kiss to a Sherlock's forehead.

"Relax love, I'm not going anywhere. You're mine now, remember?" He says softly, and Sherlock's body relaxes, his hold on John going soft and loose, his body lax and languid.

"There you are. You're mine Sherlock, you have nothing to worry about. If there's anything at all you should know about me by now, it's that I take very good care of those I care about, and there is no one I care for, the way I care for you." He says, pressing reassuring kisses to Sherlock's face and neck.

"I love you, my darling boy. Don't you worry your perfectly brilliant head. I will always take care of you." He finishes, and Sherlock sighs contentedly, ready to fall asleep, but before he does, he has one thing he has to say.

"I love you too, Daddy." He whispers, and before John can think to respond, he's asleep. 

John brushes his curls gently from his face, then climbs out of bed and pads into the loo, happier than he can ever remember being. He wets a flannel and cleans up, then wets another and slips back into bedroom and proceeds to clean Sherlock so gently, he doesn't even wake. He coaxes Sherlock's limp body out of the chains, then he strips the soiled duvet from the bed, tugs Sherlock into his arms, tosses the remaining sheets over them, and follows his little love off into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooooo, yeah... that happened. Don't take fic as advice you guys, please practice safe sex!
> 
> I really really hope you enjoyed the chapter as I worked my BUTT OFF getting it done!
> 
> Hugs and love, see you soon!


	13. Chance Encounters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bumping into old friends...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *peeks head out from behind door* Hi guys, I know it's been a while. Sorry! Seriously January is the most hectic month of the year for me and I just got very caught up with life. There was no time for writing, there just wasn't, but like I've said before, I'll never abandon this fic, so on that you never have to worry! 
> 
> Warm chocolate chip cookies and lots of hugs to my very motivational and super thoughtful friend and beta [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) for all her help and for reading like 5 versions of this chapter in a 48 hour span.
> 
> All mistakes are mine...
> 
> Yadda yadda, italics...
> 
> Hope you guys like it!

"John, I'm going to resign my position at Bart's." Sherlock says one morning over breakfast and John doesn't even look up from his plate.

"Alright. As long as you're sure that's what you want." He says, forking up a bit of egg.

Sherlock stops eating his omelette and smiles gently at John's easy acceptance.

"Yes well, my lab here is not only comparable, but actually _better_ and more technologically advanced than Bart's. With the cold cases from Lestrade and Molly's assurance that she will continue to send me test specimens, it makes no sense to carry on at a job I no longer need." He says in explanation, and John nods his head, chewing thoughtfully as he listens.

"Besides that, this will give me a chance to make headway in finding my own personal clientele, so I won't have to rely on Lestrade for work." He continues and John swallows, then sips his tea.

"Sounds like you've got this all thought out and well in hand." He says with a smile and Sherlock nods.

"So, when are we resigning?" John asks and Sherlock eyes snap up to his.

"Oh come off it. There's no way you thought I'd let you spend your days running about London after criminals all by your lonesome. I don't _need_ to work, I just need to be _useful_ , and I can imagine keeping up with you will be a full time occupation all on its own." He says in a jovial tone.

Sherlock can't help the smile that spreads over his face as John speaks. By the time John finishes Sherlock is full on beaming at him in unfettered delight.

"We'll have to get business cards made." He says in a low, timidly happy voice and John reaches over the table to stroke his fingertips gently over the back of Sherlock's hand. 

"We'll do it today after we hand in our resignation letters." And Sherlock nods again, sips his coffee and stands.

"Well, no time like the present." He says, and John stands with him and moves to his laptop. 

"You get dressed, I'll start typing."

\---------------

2 hours later they walk into Bart's and part with a small kiss. John walks away to find Mike, and Sherlock makes his way to the administrative office to submit his letter. 

He steps onto the lift and just before the doors slide shut a hand slips between them, and they glide back open to reveal one Jim Moriarty.

"Hello there gorgeous. Fancy seeing you here." He says in a singsong voice.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Yes, what a coincidence." He responds, words dripping in dry sarcasm.

"Limo driver?" He asks, and Moriarty gives a single smug nod.

"You'd really be surprised at the things a man's chauffeur knows." He says grinning wide and sinister, like a shark at its prey.

"You really _should_ let me take you out sometime. I promise you whatever that Doctor of yours has, I have more." He says, slipping his hands into the trouser pockets of a truly beautiful navy Westwood suit.

Sherlock huffs 

"He has my love, you wouldn't happen to have any of that lying about, would you?" Sherlock asks annoyedly, and Jim just continues to grin.

"I could." He answers easily and Sherlock glares.

"You _really_ couldn't." He replies darkly, and just as he finishes speaking, the elevator stops and the doors open. Sherlock steps off, leaving Jim leaning against the wall with a smirk on his lips.

"Nice chat. I'm sure I'll be seeing you again, Sherlock Holmes." Jim says as the doors begin to slide shut, dark eyes fastened firmly on Sherlock until they close completely.

Sherlock brushes off the interaction, pulls out his phone, and smiles when he sees he has a text from John.

> _
> 
> Just gave my letter to Mike. I'm going to leave and grab a take away, I'm craving a good chicken Korma. Fancy anything specific?
> 
> _

Sherlock sighs and shakes his head, knowing that if he doesn't choose something John will pick for him and sit at the table with him until he eats it.

 __

>  _Rogan Josh would be good._

He responds, then puts his phone back in his pocket, turns to face the doors, and prepares to cement his new future.

\-------------

At lunch, Sherlock is distant. He doesn't mean to be, but he can't help it as he goes over his "chance encounter" with Jim. 

After they finish John retreats to a large overstuffed chair to read a book, but when Sherlock stands and drifts distractedly into the kitchen, so distractedly that he stubs his toe on the base of the island, John decides to intervene.

"Sherlock... What's going on in that big brain of yours that's got you so wound up?" He asks, and Sherlock glances over at him as if he's seeing him for the first time in hours. 

"At hospital today, Jim Moriarty cornered me in the lift and rather blatantly informed me that I would be better off with him." He says, his mind still focused on trying to parse out the underlying meaning of Jim's words.

"Oh did he now?" John asks, and his voice is low and there's a faint hint of jealousy cloaked in anger.

Sherlock wipes Jim from his mind and gives John a devious smirk.

"Yes, he did. Problem?" He asks, and before John can answer he continues speaking.

"Are you worried that I'll be sucked into Jim Moriarty's web and not want you any longer, Captain Watson?" Sherlock asks, biting at his lower lip to quell his smile. He doesn't know why exactly, but he kind of enjoys John's little bit of jealousy. It makes him feel sexy and _desired_ , not that he'll ever tell John that. 

John speaks and his voice breaks Sherlock's internal monologue.

"I need to do absolutely fuck all to make you want me, love. I can wind you up easy as a child's toy car and just _hold_ you there, squirming and vibrating with how bad you want it while you wait and writhe and _beg_ for me to give you what you need. No baby, I'm not worried at all. You're mine, and not because I buy you pretty things. You're mine because you _want_ to be, and I'm damn certain nothing _anyone_ does could make you forget how much you love belonging to me. Besides, you're much too stubborn to give Jim Moriarty, or anyone else for that matter, the satisfaction." John says in a quiet, calm voice that makes Sherlock's chest feel tight and his limbs feel heavy. He feels shivery and sexy and _owned_ and he can't help the gentle heaving of his chest at John's words.

"Now come here gorgeous, I've missed you." John finishes, unperturbed by Sherlock's obvious arousal, and when Sherlock stands before him, John plucks the pillow from behind his back and drop it to the floor between his knees.

"Can you kneel down for me Sherlock? Let's see if we can't quiet your mind for a bit." He says gently and Sherlock goes easily, slipping gracefully to his knees.

John cards his fingers through Sherlock's hair, scratching gently at his scalp and smiling when Sherlock hums out his appreciation.

"There, see how easy that was? There's no need to try and provoke a response from me love, you can have anything you like, all you ever have to do is ask." John says sweetly and Sherlock nods his head, eyes closed as he revels in John's attention.

"Yes Daddy." He breathes out, and John leans forward to press a soft kiss to his lips, the ginger hairs of his beard scratching deliciously at Sherlock's lips and mouth so that he hums desperately into the kiss, his lips parting slightly in his ardour just as John pulls away. 

Sherlock leans his head on John's thigh, and for a few long minutes they stay that way, quiet and comfortably content in what and who they are, but soon enough, Sherlock finds that he's been idle for too long, and his brain is taking him over again. He spends a moment considering that he never did find out what it is John is hiding in his locked closet.

He sighs and peeks up at John over his lashes, not intentionally coy, eyes simply full of youthful innocence.

"I think I'll go play in the lab for a bit, do something useful with myself." He says, and John smiles and helps him stand.

"Off you go." He says before picking up his book again and settling in to read.

Sherlock stops in his old bedroom for his lock picks, then slips quietly into the room he shares with John.

He takes the picks from the small cloth case and marches over to the door. He gets them situated inside the lock, and just as he begins to test the tumblers the door to the bedroom swings open and John is looking down at his bent body, shaking his head in fond amusement.

"You left your phone in the kitchen so I stopped by the lab to ask you what you'd like for dinner, imagine my surprise when you weren't there." John says with a smile.

Sherlock stands and looks hesitantly at John who simply continues to smile.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to try and get in there..." John begins, and Sherlock drops his head, anticipating chastisement, but John steps forward and places a finger beneath his chin and lifts gently until their eyes catch.

"No Sherlock, I'm not upset love, and neither should you be. There is nothing in there that I'm hiding from you, just a few things I don't believe you're ready for quite yet. Can you trust me enough to be the judge on when you get to see them?" He asks, and Sherlock smiles.

"I'd trust you with _anything_ , least of all this." He says, and John takes his hand.

"So, if you really need to quiet the noise, why don't you let me help you with that?" John says in that low dark tone that means he's about to blow Sherlock's mind, and Sherlock can only nod helplessly as John draws him back into the sitting room.

"Stay here and I'll be right back." He says after settling Sherlock on the sofa. He trots off into the bedroom and comes back with a small black bundle of cloth and an unsolved [Rubick's cube](http://221bestillmyheart.tumblr.com/post/157331646230). Sherlock rolls his eyes at the notion that something as _simple_ as a Rubick's cube could occupy his mind, but he trusts John enough that he'll see where John is going with it before he voices his disdain.

John sets the bundle and the cube down on his armchair and goes to the table where he grabs one of the wooden chairs and sits it about a half metre from the window.

"You have a photographic memory, correct?" He asks and Sherlock hedges.

"Finely honed eidetic memory, but they are nearly symmetrical concepts." He explains, flushing pink when John chuckles.

"I adore you Sherlock." John says, a smile in his voice as he retrieves the cube and walks over to Sherlock. 

"Undress." He says in a darker tone and Sherlock's eyes widen before he stands and shucks his clothes down to his pants and leaves them all neatly on the sofa beside him.

"Everything." John insists gently, and Sherlock flushes darker as he drags his underwear down his legs and off.

John hands him the cube, and steps away to grab the black, misshapen bundle.

"You have 30 seconds to memorize that." He says, nodding at the cube in Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock immediately sets his eyes on the cube, taking quick mental snapshots of each side and filing them away numerically.

"Times up." John says, and Sherlock passes over the cube, watching as John puts it behind a pillow on the sofa just to get it out of sight. He then unwraps the bundle in his hand to reveal a [vibrating suction cup dildo]()

"Oh!" Sherlock gasps as he puts it all together.

"Where's the blindfold?" He asks and John smirks as he fixes the suction cup to the chair, then stands and pulls a long black strip of silk from his jeans pocket.

"Now turn around and bend over for me love." John instructs, and Sherlock spins on his heel, and bends to grip the sofa cushion, presenting his arse to John.

"Beautiful." John sighs, running his hands down Sherlock's back and over his hips, arse, and thighs before reaching into his pocket for the lube he stashed there earlier. He slicks up 2 fingers and presses inside with one.

"Let's get you ready, yeah?" He asks, and Sherlock nods vigorously, his hips already finding the rhythm as he winds them back to get more.

John adds another finger and begins to scissor the pretty pink bud open while very deliberately avoiding Sherlock's prostate, readying his little love for the stretch of the dildo. 

"Alright, come here lovely." John says and Sherlock stands, face flushed, panting, and bright eyed.

John steps in close and runs his hands over Sherlock's shoulders, chest and belly, palms flat as he luxuriates in the velvety softness of Sherlock's skin. His hands continue down Sherlock's sides then across his hips and down to grip his arse with a low growl and a flex of his arms that brings Sherlock flush against his chest.

He presses their lips together and lets his tongue sweep into the slick sweetness of Sherlock's mouth, cups his head and threads his fingers into the curls at Sherlock's temples while he kisses his boy breathless.

When they finally pull apart, they're both panting. 

John makes a sweeping gesture toward the chair and Sherlock walks over and stands in front of it, looking out at the evening lights of London. They're much too high up for anyone to see but the brazenness of it all titillates him and send tingles of anticipation sparking through his blood.

John steps behind the chair and puts lube on the vibrator while Sherlock puts his hands on the arm rests, bending down and positioning himself over the dildo. John reaches over the back of the chair and grips Sherlock's waist to help guide and give him support, and slowly, Sherlock drops his weight down into the chair, letting the slick toy breach him. 

"Oh fuck." He gasps once he head is fully inside.

Slowly they work Sherlock down, inch by inch. By the time Sherlock is sat down fully, he's gasping and grinding his hips down on the toy, moaning with every bump against his sweet spot.

John steps around and leans in for yet another kiss, brushing Sherlock's fringe back away from his face.

"You ready for the blindfold?" He asks, and Sherlock nods, but John brushes his thumb over Sherlock's mouth.

"Words please love." He says sweetly and Sherlock looks up into his eyes.

"Yes Daddy, I'm ready." He pants out, and John smiles, then tucks a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear, and moves back behind him. 

He folds the fabric neatly into a long rectangle then slips it about Sherlock's eyes, and ties it securely, but gently, taking care not to catch any of Sherlock's hair in the knot.

He grabs up the cube from the sofa and places it in Sherlock's hands.

"The fastest time in the world for this is 4.74 seconds, but given that you're blindfolded and you're also _otherwise occupied_ I'm going to give you 30. After that it's one minute on the dildo for every 5 extra seconds of time I give you to work on the cube." He says casually, then he leans in and puts his lips to Sherlock's ear. 

"The game is over when the puzzle is solved, and when the puzzle is solved, you get to come." He whispers, reveling in she shiver that races down Sherlock's back while his boy writhes against the chair trying as hard as he can to stuff himself full on the silicon cock inside him.

"The color on the top left corner of the side facing you is green." He says, giving Sherlock his starting point.

"Ready love?" He asks.

"Yes Daddy." Sherlock responds, then John sets the timer on his phone for 30 seconds, and whispers into Sherlock's ear.

"Go." He says, and then leans down and turns on the vibrator.

"Ohhhh God!" Sherlock screams, tossing his head back, glossy curls gleaming in the moonlight as his fingers begin to work at the cube. 

At the 15 second mark he loses his pace as John presses a button and a staccato pattern of low, deep, thrumming vibrations starts up, sending Sherlock's brain into a tailspin as the sensations hum through him.

His hands have gone completely still on the cube and and he loses valuable time locked in ecstasy. A low, needy moan crawls up from his chest and spills out of his mouth. He wets his lips, and John watches them glisten. He steps back and takes in the entirety of the picture Sherlock makes. 

His dark hair gleams, and his skin almost glows in the moonlight. His lips shine slick with saliva and there's a dull sheen on the black silk covering his eyes. He's long, lithe, lean, and his gorgeous body is twisting sinuously in place, suspended out over his pleasure by six inches of silicon and an army doctor.

" _gorgeous_." John breathes out and Sherlock whimpers.

10 seconds." John says, stepping back behind Sherlock and reaching over his pale shoulders to pluck gently at his nipples. 

Sherlock gasps and his back arches, grinding the head of the dildo against his prostate forcing a thin stream of precum to leak from his achingly hard cock while Sherlock cries out hoarsely.

"5 seconds." John calls softly, and Sherlock gives a panicked moan, because he can't imagine making it through another minute of this without coming all over himself.

He calls up his last image of what the cube looked like and moves his fingers in tandem with his thoughts, but it's too late.

"Time. Set the cube on the floor between your feet." John says, and Sherlock does, a small squeak slipping out at the angle when he bends forward.

When he sits back up, John clicks the button again, and the rhythm changes. Two long, steady vibrations and a short harsh one that makes him yelp.

"John, please." He begs, and John runs his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

"You can do this love. You're so close to finishing. Focus." He encourages, and Sherlock lets out a sob as frustrated tears gather in his eyes and dampen the fabric of his blindfold.

"I _can't_." Sherlock moans, gripping the arm rest hard, leaning back into the chair and using his feet as leverage to fuck himself on the vibrating cock inside him.

"More, more..." He pants out.

"Ohhhh, I need more. I need you Daddy, _please_." He begs again, but John only presses his lips to Sherlock's neck and whispers.

"20 seconds love. You can do it." 

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and continues bouncing on the toy, because _god_ does it feel good. Besides, if he just sits still he'll come before he can think about it. At least this way he can get that damn thing _off_ his prostate.

John watches Sherlock bounce, his cock rock hard and aching from the sight is his boy's weeping shaft bouncing against his toned belly, and the idea that Sherlock would drive himself to tears for no other reason than John asked him to.

"Time." John calls again, then clicks the button and the dildo stills. Sherlock huffs and tries to catch his breath.

"Pick up the cube darling." John instructs and Sherlock does, his breath catching when the silicon refuses to bend quite as readily as his insides.

"Five seconds love, do you know where you are?" John asks, and Sherlock nods.

"Yes Daddy." He responds, running his fingers over the edges of the cube and waiting for John to give him the go ahead.

"Alright. Go." John says and Sherlock's fingers fly. They spin and turn with wicked precision and grace and he's three turns from finishing when John calls out.

"Time." 

Sherlock whines helplessly and slumps into the back of the chair.

"One more minute Sherlock, just one more. We both know you're going to finish the next time around. Think you can make it?" John asks and Sherlock takes a deep breath in and nods.

"Yes. Yes I can take it." Sherlock answers and John presses his lips tenderly to the top of Sherlock's shoulder, then reaches down and turns the toy on again.

"One minute Sherlock, there's just one minute between you and what you want." He says, trying to focus Sherlock's attention.

"Have you decided yet how you want to come?" He asks, and Sherlock groans and nods and he winds his hips on the toy.

"Yes. Yes, I want you inside me. Please Daddy, I need you." Sherlock begs, his skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat as he works his arse up and down on the dildo.

"Yes baby, Daddy will give you what you need very soon. Don't you worry, I will always give you what you need." John answers.

"You're so gorgeous Sherlock, you have no idea the things you do to me. You're like living art." He continues and Sherlock writhes. He would flush but he imagines he's as red right now as he's ever going to be.

Just as Sherlock begins to wonder how much longer he's got John speaks.

"15 seconds." He says, and Sherlock huffs, every second feels like hours and he _wants_. He's tired and sweating and achingly hard and he _needs_ to come. 

"5... 4... 3... 2... 1..." And the dildo stills.

"Pick up the cube darling. You're almost done." John says gently and Sherlock picks up the cube one last time.

"5 seconds." John warns.

"Go." He says and Sherlock's fingers fly yet again, and in less than two seconds he's done with a wail of frustrated victory.

"Amazing job darling. My brilliant, beautiful boy. You are perfection." John says gently.

"Do you think you can stand?" He asks and Sherlock nods and lifts himself slowly off of the toy and the chair. 

He takes a single step to the side and John turns the chair so the back of it is only centimeters away from the window, then detaches the dildo from it. He grabs a pillow from the sofa and sets it on the seat of the chair, and guides Sherlock into it, knees first.

"Into the chair love, on your knees, sit back on your heels, arch your back and put your hands against the window." He instructs and Sherlock doesn't waste a moment getting into position. He settles his body the way John asked and presses his palms flat against the cool glass before him.

When he hears John's zipper pull he leans his head over the back of the chair, letting the top of it rest against the glass between his hands.

John slicks his own cock, and moves in behind Sherlock, too eager to get inside him to even bother undressing. His trousers are still sat around his waist, only the button and zip undone, his pants tugged and tucked beneath his bollocks. He spreads a bit of extra lube on Sherlock's hole then notches his cock against the tender opening.

Sherlock lets out a wrecked moan as John presses into him. His nails scratch at the glass for a handhold but find nothing.

Once he's fully inside, John tugs the blindfold down and around Sherlock's neck, then grips Sherlock's chin and raises his head so his face is parallel to the glass.

He pulls himself almost all the way out, then presses back inside slowly, enjoying the hot clutch of Sherlock's pretty arse a round his cock.

"Open your eyes love, look at it." He commands and Sherlock opens his eyes, completely unaware that he had ever closed them.

"London is watching." John breathes into Sherlock's ear and he pulls out again and thrusts back inside. Quicker this time, more intent on pleasure than languorous savoring.

"London is watching you be Daddy's sexy little slut, and she's watching you love it." He growls out and Sherlock gasps, groans and rocks his hips back on John's cock, his hole clenching down around John's shaft and dragging a ragged moan from deep in John's chest.

"God Sherlock you make a man want to give up his entire world just to keep you." John whispers as he grips Sherlock's hips and pounds inside, then pulls out and repeats the pattern.

He tilts Sherlock's hips at a bit of an angle, and his next stroke inside makes Sherlock shout in rapturous ecstasy, his head thrown back, eyes shut, mouth open and his cock drips all over the chair.

"Daddy please?!" He begs, and John knows he won't be able to last much longer so he lets go of one of Sherlock's hips and reaches around to grip Sherlock's cock in his hand.

"Go on then, come whenever you like." John pants out into Sherlock's ear and Sherlock wraps his hand around John's on his cock and twines their fingers together. 

Together they jerk him desperately, and in moments Sherlock's body is drawing up tight and his muscles are locking down as his orgasm explodes from him and makes him feel as if everything inside him has been left empty and hollow and... quiet.

He hums happily and slumps forward, reveling in the silence, and content to lie listlessly and allow John to take his own pleasure in Sherlock's body. 

A few moments is all it takes and John is leaning down and sinking his teeth into Sherlock's shoulder while he grunts out his name and empties himself into the pliant boy beneath him.

After taking a minute to catch his breath, John pulls out with a wet squelch, and helps Sherlock stand and stretch his stiff muscles. When Sherlock tries to stand on his own his knees give out, but John catches him and sweeps him up into his arms bridal style.

"Are you alright love?" He asks, peering down into Sherlock's face as he carries him down the hall and toward the bedroom.

Sherlock nods against his chest and snuggles deeper into his arms.

"I'm fine, just a little worn out." Sherlock answers croakily.

John presses a kiss to his forehead and continues on to the bedroom door and kicks it open, turning sideways to keep Sherlock's head protected from the doorway. He lays his love down on the bed, then jogs back into the kitchen for a bottle of water. 

When he returns to the bedroom, Sherlock is shaking.

"Sherlock? Sherlock love what's wrong?" He asks sitting next to him on the bed, voice calm and confident. Sherlock clings to him. He clings to that easy assurance that all is well when John is there. He clings to the comforting steadfastness that is John Watson, and tries to calm his body.

"Just coming down from the high." He explains, and John nods, picking Sherlock up again and stepping into the loo. He sets Sherlock down on the toilet and runs the tap for the tub, puts in the stopper and waits for it to fill with his arms wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock's arms wrapped about his waist, his face pressed into John's belly. 

When the tub is full, he gets undressed and stands, lifting Sherlock and setting him gently in the warm, bubbly water before stepping into the tub behind him, sitting, and leaning Sherlock's long form back against the front of his body. 

They sit in the water, John sponging warm water over Sherlock's skin until his body stops shaking.

John gets them both clean, out of the tub, into their pajamas, and settled in the sitting room on the sofa, wrapped in a large hand crocheted afghan that Sherlock suspects was made by Mrs. Hudson, then looks down at Sherlock with a smile.

"Sleepy? Or just relaxed?" He asks, and Sherlock looks up at him, eyes a bit low and his lids batting slowly.

"Just relaxed." He breathes out and John smiles again and clicks on the telly.

He flips the channels until he catches [The Wonder of Bees](http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01t6nz6) on. He turns it low and settles in to enjoy, happiness welling inside him when he feels Sherlock's lips curve up into a small smile against his neck when he hears the what the subject matter is. 

He snuggles into John even further.

Moments later when John looks down, Sherlock is wrapped around him as if he made of Velcro and snoring softly, but that's alright. John will finish the episode, and carry his perfect love off to bed soon enough.

\--------------

The next morning John wakes up alone on the sofa to panicked, banging knocks on his door and the sound of Callum from the tailor shop's loud yelling.

"DOCTOR WATSON! DOCTOR WATSON YOU'VE GOT TO COME QUICK!" He hollers through the door.

"DOCTOR WATSON WAKE UP THEY'VE TAKEN HIM!!" He carries on when the first volley doesn't rouse John.

He sits bolt upright, then runs to the door to see what's going on. 

"Taken who?" He asks, flinging the door open to Callum's stricken face, dread settling in his stomach because he knows who. He knows all too well who's been taken.

"Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yes, things are heating up, but just, trust in me you guys, I have a plan. Just trust me.


	14. It's All Fine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, it looks like it's time for everything to come to a head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Sorry I've been gone so long guys. Its been... i rough few months. Me and my kid both ended u in the hospital, and I've been dealing with some highly personal and very painful problems. Things have slowed down a bit now though, so of course I came back to our boys!

"Thank you very much for the tea Mrs. Hudson, but I really should be getting back upstairs to John now. If he wakes and doesn't find me he'll get a bit panicky." Sherlock says, going to the sink to rinse his mug and being shooed away.

"Off you trot. I've got this, you go check on John, yes?" Sherlock smiles at her gently and makes his way to the door.

"If you need anything..." He trails off and Mrs. Hudson returns his smile.

"I will call you dear, not to worry." She says and swats him softly with her tea towel.

"Now off with you, I don't want an army captain beating down my door if he wakes up without you." She says and Sherlock laughs.

"Too right you are." He responds jovially, slipping out the door and making his way through the maze of halls to the lifts.

He walks inside, presses the button for the penthouse, and waits. 

He steps off and looks toward the door to the home he shares with John, and immediately he knows something is wrong.

The door is ajar.

He takes off at a dead run, smashing through the door and looking around wildly before slamming his eyes shut and forcing himself to slow his breathing and the fierce pounding of his heart.

 _'Look!'_ He tells himself angrily.

 _'Observe._ He snarls at himself in the cold, clear tones of his father's voice.

He opens his eyes and lets them dart about the room, taking in every single detail that could possibly explain why John isn't there. 

He walks into the kitchen, taking in the empty sink. No mug from John’s morning tea. He turns to find John’s keys still on the end table near the sofa, and rushes toward the bedroom.

No new clothes in the dirty laundry. 

He crosses into the loo to find that John’s toothbrush isn't wet, and there's no evidence of John’s careful beard maintenance. 

He makes his way back to the sitting room and the tile floor just in front of the door has small scuffs that he missed in his initial hurry. Nothing that would suggest capture so much as John leaving in rather a rush. He grabs up the keys and swings his coat about him, making his way back to Mrs. Hudson’s.

He knocks harshly and she flings her door open, expression mildly annoyed until she sees who it is, and the concerned look on Sherlock’s face. 

“John is gone.” He says quietly and her face crumbles.

“I need to see the security tapes from our floor, it's my best chance at finding him if something’s happened. And I _know_ something has happened Mrs. Hudson. He wouldn't just _leave_ like this.” He says, and if his voice is shaking, she’s kind enough not to mention it.

“Of course dear. Let's go find our captain.” She responds, and Sherlock has never been more grateful to a person. He takes her hands in his and breathes words he has rarely said, less even with any real meaning behind them.

“Thank you.” 

She leads him to a room in the basement and shoos the staff from the room. She points to the correct monitor and Sherlock fiddles with the instruments, rewinding it a few hours back to when he left for Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He pores over the screen, but just as the lift doors open on the recording, the monitor goes blank. 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Completely black, and Sherlock knows it's been wiped to cover someone's tracks. 

He turns back to Mrs. Hudson.

“Go back to your flat and wait for my call. Don't answer the door for anyone, do you understand Mrs. Hudson?” He stresses. “No one. I’ll announce myself when it's me, and only then do you even crack that door. Pack a small bag and be ready to leave in an hour. We’re finding John and getting out of here. Someone, and I suspect I know who it is, has been very very naughty.” He explains, and Mrs. Hudson, bless her, doesn't bat a lash. Instead she nods, turns on her black patent leather heel, and makes her way back up the stairs.

Once she’s out of earshot Sherlock pulls out his phone. 

He has an important call to make. Quite possibly the most important call of his young life.

\-------------------

John rushes from the flat, shoes still hanging off the back of his feet, keys nowhere in sight, the sandy brown head of Callum moving quickly toward the lifts as he yanks his jacket from the rack and can't even be bothered to shut the door behind him. 

He hurries into the lift behind him and immediately starts asking questions.

“What happened?!” He asks, still panting, his heart pounding against his ribs.

Callum shakes his head.

“Not here. I don't know who we can trust right now.” He says, a panicked, fearful expression on his face, and John looks up at the camera and nods his assent. Outside. They need to get out of the building.

They burst from the lift and race through the lobby, shuffling quickly into a conveniently placed taxi just outside the doors.

After a few moments to settle, John looks up at Callum expectantly.

“Sherlock came into the shop first thing this morning. We weren't even open yet, but the tailor recognized him and let him in. He was poking around the ties, said he was looking for a gift for you, but before he could make a choice two large men burst in and snatched him! Bundled him right out of the store in broad daylight and stuffed him into the boot of a black car and took off! I came to get you right after.” He says. Blue eyes wide, bright with unshed tears, and earnest in the extreme.

 _Too_ earnest.

John nods and thinks it all over, because nothing about this story is adding up to Sherlock. To _his_ Sherlock, who hates ties and wakes before 10 for nothing other than good food or great sex.

“About what time was it Sherlock got to the shop?” He asks carefully, and Callum pauses briefly as if thinking back.

“Couldn't have been a spot later than half six. We had just begun unpacking the new inventory for the day.” Callum answers, and John has had enough of the lies.

“So where is Sherlock _really_.” John asks in a tone just a shade too polite to come across as anything other than threatening.

“Because he certainly wasn't _anywhere_ at half six this morning. Even less so shopping for ties at that hour.” John asks in that same too friendly tone.

The frightened look drops right off of Callum’s face. Twisting into furious disgust.

“You’ll be dead soon enough. I guess there's no harm in telling you since you seem to have picked up a few habits from your freaky little boyfriend.” Callum spits, and John sits back against the seat and folds his arms over his chest waiting for the melodramatic monologue that's sure to follow.

“How _dare_ you John Watson?” He snarls.

“I’ve spent years of my life preparing to be yours and you just toss me over for some tall, pretty, freak?!” He rages, and John has to make a concerted effort not to roll his eyes. Wondering what planet this boy is from that he _ever_ thought John was interested in anything more than his prosperous future.

“Sent me to school, paid for everything I could ever need, and for what? To waste both out our time because you just couldn't _wait_ to fuck something.” He sneers in disgust, eyes boring holes into John.

“Why groom me to be the perfect doctor’s husband only to throw it all away?” He asks, vitriol dripping from his lips.

John sits up straight and stares him tight in the eyes.

“I wasn't grooming you for _anything_.” He says in a low, viciously controlled tone.

“You weren't fit for military duty. Too weak and easily distracted. I took an oath to do no harm and to save every life I possible, so it stood to reason that I'd do what I could to keep you getting your head blown off halfway round the world surrounded by sand and destruction. I have to say that now? Now I’m wondering why I wasted the effort.” He spits, smiling darkly when his remark hits home.

“If I had wanted you, I would have said so from the first, and you certainly would never have had to _wonder_ if it was you I was after. I'm very _clear_ about my intentions when I see someone I like. You were just never what I was looking for.” He finishes.

Callum is _fuming_ , but John is no stranger to righteous indignation, so he continues to stare serenely back at him.

Callum reaches into his jacket and pulls out a gun, which he then points at John with shaky hands and the safety still very much on. 

John almost pities him, and how easy it was to needle the boy into showing John that he was armed.

Which is really all he needed to know. 

Because soon enough, that gun will be in John Watson’s hands, and woe betide anyone that gets between it and John’s path to Sherlock Holmes.

\-------------------

Sherlock taps the number on his screen and puts the phone to his ear, waiting impatiently for the call to connect.

“Mycroft Holmes speaking.” His brother says, voice as stiff and proper as ever, and Sherlock doesn't waste precious time rolling his eyes.

“John’s been taken. Find him.” He says, and the response is immediate.

“Two minutes.” The voice responds and the line goes dead.

Sherlock takes a deep break and counts down the seconds in his head, tapping his foot with every second and trying to pace each beat of his heart with his count. 

It doesn't work.

At his count of 112, his phone rings, and he picks it up before the first ring can finish.

“Where is he?” He asks shortly, and Mycroft responds in kind.

“He got into a cab with a young man outside the building and was last seen being walked into a warehouse just off the Thames at gunpoint. I’ve texted you the address. Go.” The phone clicks dead once again and Sherlock sprints up the stairs and out the main doors.

He throws his hand up to hail a cab, but before one can pull up, the back door of a black minivan rolls open just at the edge of his periphery, and he turns to see a bound and weeping Mrs. Hudson sitting next to one Jim Moriarty. Smiling evilly.

Sherlock moves close to the van and Moriarty speaks.

“I'm sure I don't need to tell you what happens if you don't come quietly?” He asks in that posh Irish lilt of his, and Sherlock climbs into the van and shuts the door, ignoring him completely.

He takes in the bruises on her face and wrists and thinks that she should ever have had to deal with abuse again, least of all for him.

“Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson. It will do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet.” He says quietly, and she nods. Takes a deep breath and holds her head high, mustering all the dignity her position will allow.

“Oh good!” Moriarty crows. "The old bat has some salt to her after all. Well well, won't his be fun!” He exclaims, clapping his hands together like a child delighted with it’s new toy.

“Well then, let's get back and get started, shall we?” He asks. 

And with that, the van pulls easily out into London traffic, and merges seamlessly. 

Sherlock wonders how no one around could have seen what happened, but then he supposes there wasn't much to see.

\-------------------

John steps from the cab in front of a large deserted warehouse, and Callum prods him in the back with the barrel of the gun and John walks ahead, biding his time.

 _‘Soon.’_ He thinks. 

Very soon.

He’s pushed headlong into a room and the large metal door is pulled shut behind him, and he hears the old rusted lock slide into place.

He sits and waits. Eventually someone will come in for him, and there he will find his opening.

Sure enough, after what could only be fifteen to twenty minutes a tall, brawny fellow with bleach blond hair and broad shoulder comes inside.

John finally gives in to the urge to roll his eyes. This guy is straight out of a bad spy movie.

The goon rushes him, and John braces for impact. Then, at the last moment, he spins out of the way and shoves hard, sending the henchman crashing head first into the stone wall behind them. 

The man makes impact with a sick crunch, and drops like a stone.

John pats him down for a weapon, and sighs annoyedly when he finds nothing. He opens the unlocked door and finds Callum sitting in a steel folding chair just beside the door. 

Before the boy can think to move besides his eyes flying wide, John’s hand is around his throat and squeezing.

“I’d be well within my rights to kill you, but lucky for you I don't have the extra time it would take to end the waste of oxygen you’ve amounted to.” He shoves the boy into the room with the downed muscle.

“But if I see you again… I’ll make time.” He snarls, ripping the gun from Callum’s jeans and slamming the door shut. He engages the bolt and sets the chair under the knob for extra security, then takes off down the hall, gun up and aimed, searching for Sherlock.

Another goon comes barreling around the corner and John puts a bullet in his shoulder with ease.

“Stay down and you’ll live. Follow me and the next one is aimed at your head.” He calls out in warning, feet never stopping as his head whips around wildly, ears straining to pick up any sign at all of his little love.

The next henchman comes running noisily down a set of metal stairs and John huffs annoyedly.

No stealth training these guys.

He puts a bullet neatly through this one’s knee and gives him the same warning as the last, then makes his way up the stairs to the ground floor. Where the open space of the floor is large and easily accessible.

And just there, across the wide expanse of stone is Sherlock, being held still by Jim Moriarty’s hand wrapped tightly into the soft curls at the back of his head.

John takes aim, moving closer with every second, but Jim just runs a gentle finger over Sherlock’s jaw.

“I wouldn't do that.” He says in a casual tone, refusing to face John, or acknowledge him physically in any way, entranced as he is by Sherlock.’

And suddenly, John is covered in small red dots that can only mean one thing.

But John just doesn't care, and keeps his stance. If it means getting Sherlock out of the hands of this madman, he’ll take whatever comes his way, but just then, Jim drags Sherlock round to face John. The moment he sees John he lets out a low, pained sound that makes John’s chest ache with the need to hold him in his arms and remove all need for him to ever make that sound again.

“John.” Sherlock whimpers, and John takes a single step forward, at which Moriarty snaps his fingers, and those red dots transfer themselves to Sherlock in the small instant it takes John to blink away the tears welling up at the emotion in Sherlock’s voice.

“Don't worry love. You're going to be alright.” John assures him.

Jim leans in and drags his tongue up the long, pale column of Sherlock’s throat, a slimy sheen being left in its wake that leaves John burning with a rage so hot it’s cold.

Sherlock’s face twists in mix of fear and disgust that breaks John’s heart and strengthens his resolve.

He’ll die if he must, but Sherlock is leaving this damned warehouse.

“I really wouldn't be so sure of that.” Jim says with a dark chuckle, but John’s aim never wavers, so he huffs and rolls his eyes, finally turning toward John.

His hand never leaves Sherlock’s hair.

“He’s mine now.” Jim says serenely.

“Once I kill you and that little idiot from the shop, there’ll be no one to stop me… but I guess it's no fun if I don't at _least_ give you a chance. So let's play a little game!” Jim shrieks, rocking up into his toes and grinning fiendishly.

“John just shoot him.” Sherlock speaks out over him.

“We’ll all be killed either way, at least this way he goes too.” Sherlock rationalizes, but John refuses. 

Not until he figures out how to get Sherlock out first.

And then Jim snaps again.

A small, purple clad woman is brought out and thrown to the floor at Jim’s feet.

He reaches down and removes the black canvas bag that had been cloaking her face to reveal Mrs. Hudson and John’s heart sinks into his stomach.

What the hell could this psychopath _possibly_ want with her? He asks himself, but he can't put the pieces together.

Jim rolls his eyes at having to explain and looks down at Mrs. Hudson with an unconcerned expression, then back up at John.

All the red dots disappear, and Jim begins to speak.

“Who deserves to live?” He asks in that eerie singsong tone of his.

“You have one minute to shoot one of them yourself, or you and the old bag both die and Sherlock here becomes my pretty little slave boy. I could do with a new pet.” He says, shaking Sherlock about a bit, rattling his head like a dog on a lead.

Just then John sees someone moving in the shadows behind Jim and Sherlock. He recognizes Mycroft’s silhouette and decides to make a play for both time and distraction.

He lets the tears in his eyes fall, and his shoulders slump defeatedly. He locks eyes with Sherlock, and turns the gun on himself.

Sherlock immediately starts twisting and turning in Moriarty’s grasp, leaning against the pressure against his head, trying to get to John.

“NO! John no!! Don't. Please don't. Anything. Anything but that!” He sobs.

“John I’ll go- I’ll go with him. It’s okay, I'm strong, I can take it. Just please. _Please_.” He begs, beautiful eyes swimming with tears and imploring John to do _anything_ else. To choose _any_ other path.

Jim’s eyes go wide, not expecting this level of devotion from either of them, and just as his hand relaxes just a tiny bit against Sherlock’s scalp, a small dagger catches him neatly across his wrist, severing tendons so that his hand falls uselessly to his side.

Sherlock looks around wildly, and let's out a deep breath when Mycroft steps out from behind Jim.

“Brother.” Mycroft says, straightening his cuffs and brushing wrinkles from his jacket. Huffing irritably when a few of the more stubborn creases refuse the treatment.

“Oh this is just too good!” Moriarty crows.

“Too bad the building will blow in, oh… just under a minute?” He says casually, and Mycroft looks over at the man with a pitying expression.

“Do you really think we haven't already swept for, and disarmed all charges?” He asks, and Moriarty opens his mouth but Mycroft cuts him off.

“ _Yes_ above _and_ below ground. I’m not quite that naive.” He says with an agitated eye roll.

He leans down and offers Mrs. Hudson's his hand.

“Mrs. Hudson please rise. This floor is absolutely filthy.” He says, his gaze sweeping over it with disgust.

Once he has her on her feet and safely behind him, he turns back to Jim.

“In almost any other situation I’d put you in a mental facility and let you rot. It's the best punishment for men with brains like ours, to be stuck on an endless loop of nothing until we waste away slowly, jumbled in with the meaningless masses.” He intones quietly.

“Unfortunately, or fortunately I suppose. It depends on hour one looks at the situation, you hurt my brother. And that? That I simply cannot abide.” 

He raises a hand to give the signal for the kill shot, but before he can give the command a shot goes off and everyone turns to the source of the sounded to see John standing firm in his stance, gun still smoking in his grasp.

Mycroft’s eyes widen a fraction in shock, which is a greater feat than John understands, but at the moment he simply doesn't care. He marches across the floor and steps over the lifeless body of Moriarty to stand in front of Sherlock, and begins checking him over for more than a few bruises.

“Are you alright my little love? Did he hurt you?” He asks softly and Sherlock shakes his head, curls bouncing about his ears and he falls into John’s arms.

John cradled him gently, cooing soothing sounds at him when Mycroft speaks again.

“Doctor Watson, I didn't assume you’d have that in you.” He expresses, an impressed look on his face.

John pins him with a look over Sherlock’s head.

“I’ve killed much better men than him. I'm a doctor, but I'm also a soldier and I fully believe that there are some people the earth is simply better off without.” He says, glancing back at Moriarty and resisting the urge to spit at his corpse.

“Yes well, we should be going. We didn't _quite_ have time to disarm the bomb on the roof, and there's just no need to tempt fate.” Mycroft replies.

They settle in the back of Mycroft’s car and John plucks Mycroft’s handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wets it with a bottle of water he was passed as he got into the limousine. 

He turns to Sherlock and wipes his neck clean of any trace of Jim, then pulls him close and holds him tight.

“It’s alright love. We’re alright.” He says, and they ride the rest of the way in silence, wrapped around each other.

\-------------

Back at the flat, Mycroft assure them that he will see Mrs. Hudson to her sisters for a bit. So she can rest and recuperate from the ordeal with caring family, and sends them up to their flat with an arched brow and a small nod of his head in John’s direction.

They step inside and John pulls Sherlock over to the sofa, where Sherlock clambers into his lap, straddling him and wrapping his arms around John's neck. He presses his face against John’s throat and tries to muffle his sobs in the fabric of John’s jumper.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, running his hands up and down Sherlock’s back and muttering sweet affirmations that all is well.

“Shhh darling. Shhh. It's alright. We’re alright. I'm here. We’re alive, and I will never let you go.” He whispers, and Sherlock just clings harder and begins to shake in his arms, so hard John can't help but to let a few tears of his own fall, desperately hurt by the pain Sherlock can't help but express.

He wraps his arms tighter around his little love, and stands. Sherlock’s legs winding about him instinctively.

He walks them to the bedroom and sets Sherlock down gently on the duvet, before climbing in next to him and sliding his arms right back around him.

They lie there for a moment, then suddenly Sherlock sits bolt upright and starts tearing at John’s clothes.

“Off. Off _now_ John. I need you. I need you right now. This very _instant_.” He breathes, but John catches his shaking hands and holds them still against the hem of his jumper.

“Slow down darling.” He says softly, pressing a sweet kiss to each of Sherlock’s palms.

“Slow down.” He repeats, pressing a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s eyelids, smiling softly when Sherlock breathes out slowly.

“We have all the time in the world love. No one is coming to take you away from me.” He says as he undoes the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, pausing to press a kiss to each new inch of exposed skin.

“God how I love you.” He whispers against the skin of Sherlock's chest while deft fingers undo the buttons at Sherlock’s cuffs, and glide up tenderly, smoothing over perfect skin to push the silky fabric from beautifully sculpted shoulders.

“My perfect love.” John whispers, sweeping his mouth over the spot on Sherlock’s neck that Moriarty had though to claim.

Sherlock reaches out and runs him hands through the short strands of John’s hair.

“I knew you would come.” He whispers, and John pressed his mouth to those rose pink lips that he’s loved since he first saw them.

“I will always come for you Sherlock. Always.” He breathes against Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock's long fingers insinuate themselves under his jumper and vest and pull them up and off in one seamless motion.

“I love you.” Sherlock breathes, and John smiles at him.

“And I you, my sweet prince.” John responds, running a hand through the curls at Sherlock’s temple, careful not to press against his scalp that must be furiously sore.

“I was so afraid.” John whispers.

“When I saw him, there with you. I would have done anything to keep you safe.” He says, and Sherlock runs his hands over John’s naked chest.

“I know. For a moment there, I thought you were going to.” Sherlock says, eyes catching John’s.

“Never again John. I can't live without you, never again.” He repeats, and John can't make any such promise, because if it ever again comes down to him or Sherlock, it will always be Sherlock.

He will always choose Sherlock.

So in lieu of an answer, he pressed another kiss to Sherlock’s lips and runs his hands over the long, lean torso below him.

“Make love to me John.” Sherlock implores. 

“I need you. I need to remember what you feel like inside me. I need to remember what it is to be _yours_.” He begs, voice breaking on the words, and John could never deny him anything, much less the assurance that he _belongs_ to John.

He tugs Sherlock free of his trousers and pants, then stands and deals with his own jeans and underwear with quick motions before climbing back into bed with his darling little love lying trembling in his sheets.

He fishes the lube from his pillowcase, where he’d begun to stash it for convenience, and sets it beside them, then leans in for yet another kiss.

He slips his hand between them and takes Sherlock’s cock in his hand as he presses his lips to his throat in sweet reverence.

He sits up and pours lube over his fingers, sliding one inside and watching as Sherlock rocks his hips up for more.

“So beautiful.” John breathes and Sherlock reaches up to grip his arms.

“More. Please more, John. I need more.” He whispers, so John adds more lube to his fingers and presses back inside with two.

He pulls his fingers apart gently, stretching Sherlock carefully, wanting there to be no pain, and only pleasure. Wanting to remind Sherlock that belonging to John Watson means love, safety, security, and all things _good_. 

Sherlock finds the lube in the sheets next to him, and drips some in his hand, then reaches down between them and strokes John’s cock, slicking him and bringing him to full hardness before he notches John at his opening, and tugs him in with a strong pull of the long legs he has wound around John’s waist.

John leans down and kisses to soft moan from Sherlock’s lips as he takes over and presses in deeper, winding his hips to tap against Sherlock’s spot as he settles as deeply as possible inside of him.

“You were always mine, and there isn't a man on earth that could change that Sherlock. You are mine and I am yours, and that will be true until the stars fall from the sky my love. Even after then. You will be mine in this life and every one after. On every plane, in every form of existence I will find you and I will love you until even the universe understands that it cannot take us away from each other.” 

John murmurs the words in Sherlock's ear as he drags his cock in and out of Sherlock in long, slow motions. He cages his forearms around Sherlock’s head and presses kisses to every bit of skin he can reach, then nuzzles his face into Sherlock’s neck and nibbles sweetly at the edge of his prince’s jaw. 

“You’re _everything_ Sherlock. Everything. You’re my everything.” He pants as he fights to keep to the slow, languid pace he’s set. This is about healing, and assurance, and affirmation. So he circles his hips again and again, steady and gentle, taking in each gasp and moan that slips from Sherlock's lips as the head of him presses against that spot that makes Sherlock see stars and clench the heat of his tight hole down around the velvet steel of John’s cock.

And when John is too close to hold on any longer, he reaches down between them and takes Sherlock in his hand again, pulling and twisting gently until Sherlock gasps and bows away from the bed, spurting across his belly and over John’s fingers, his legs clamping tight around John’s waist and his arms wrapped around John’s neck. 

The tight, rhythmic clenching is all it takes to send an already close John toppling over the edge, and he presses as far inside as possible, wanting to mark Sherlock as deeply as he can.

When they finally stop shaking, John pulls out, and usually he would go get a flannel to clean them up, but he just can't pull away from Sherlock. He can't leave him, not even just to go fetch a towel and some water. So he just flops off to the side and wraps his arms around Sherlock, presses his lips to Sherlock's hair and brushing a gentle kiss there. 

They lie in silence for a long while, and when Sherlock’s breaths go long and even with sleep, he leans in a presses a small kiss to the small space beneath Sherlock’s ear.

“Until the universe comes to an end.” He promises.

“And beyond.” He heard Sherlock whisper back at him, so he tugs his little love impossibly closer, and drift to sleep thinking of a beautiful love that transcends time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's that! I hope you enjoyed it! Lots of fluff after the angst, because angst makes me sad. Lol


	15. I'm Ready To Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so this is the end

*3 weeks later*

 

“John, are you ever going to show me what's in that bloody closet?” Sherlock asks with a small trace of annoyance in his voice, and John laughs conspiratorially, and slides off his stool where he was enjoying his morning tea at the island.

“Come one then.” He says, and Sherlock hurriedly forks up the last bit of his pancake and trots of after him.

Inside the bedroom John has retrieved a key from the nightstand and is unlocking the door. 

When it opens, so does Sherlock's mouth. His jaw drops with shock.

This is not a closet, it's an entire other _room_.

There's a large wooden “X” with steel grommets on one end, and something that looks like a leather covered pommel horse beside it, and a wooden chair with a small hole cut out over it. 

There's a metal hook hanging down from the ceiling on a chain attached to a track that winds a lazy maze across the entirety of the room. 

A large, wrought iron, four poster bed dominates one side of the room, dark purple silks tied back gently, waiting to be pulled closed, cocooning them off from the rest of the room.

There are rows upon rows of drawers and Sherlock is _itching_ to get inside them and find out all the secrets John has been hiding from him.

“Welcome to the playroom Sherlock.” John says from behind him in a low, sultry voice that send shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

“If you like, we can have all _types_ of fun in here.” He continues and Sherlock turns to him, cheeks flaming red, and eyes wide with delight.

“Yes. Let’s.” He breathes.

“Let’s.” John responds holding his hand out to Sherlock, who takes it and eagerly.

“Not quite yet love, there are some things we have to discuss first. But now that you’ve seen it? Yeah, now it's time to _really_ play.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry guys! I have an entire series of one shots planned for the playroom ;)  
> Also, I'll be doing a Mystrade spinoff because duh! Lol  
> Thank you guys so much for sticking with me though everything! I'm so proud that I've finished just like I promised I would!
> 
> Also if you liked this story and would like to read a Daddy!Sherlock fic written by myself and my amazing friend and beta [Eragon19](http://archiveofourown.org/users/eragon19/pseuds/eragon19) Then please click [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10532370/chapters/24009660)!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! If you did, drop me a line, I'd love to hear from you!  
> Also for this particular fic, which will soon become a series I'm taking requests! So if you have something that you would like to see happen then you can either leave it in the comments below, send it to my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/221bestillmyheart), or email me at 221bestillmyheart@gmail.com! 
> 
> Also, if you're interested I've found some photos of Ben and Martin that fit _perfectly_ with my idea for how the boys look in this fic, and they can be found [here](http://221bestillmyheart.tumblr.com/post/145741486390/our-boys-in-my-fic-follow-me-down)!
> 
> Hope to hear from you!


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